A COMB

A comb intruded into the hairiness of the world. As that very same comb somewhat smoothly moved I detected a need or so to consider the likelihood or possibility that things would regularize fully and splendidly.
I hereby would announce that the combing was requisite and successful. Hair after hair had undergone a sort of big-bang motif. Among locks were gates and were beggars. Many a quite fine salmon was running. Upstream and far downstream no net loss could be felt or experienced.
The greatness of combs generally may be in their teeth, eh? As we drag, pull, or otherwise move a comb through our hirsute aspect guess what may happen -- both to comb and to us. Even if you have no wish or desire to propose or propound any sort of divination, I still may strive to proffer some elucidation. (Comb and scalp rather illustriously meet, and a sort of briskness fills the air.)
An old comb of mine is labeled "unbreakable." I carry that comb in one of my pants' pockets. Whenever I opt to make use of that comb, what -- You simply must be hankering to hear this -- does the combing I exert seem likely to produce? That, itself, may be a very furry or hairy question, I will say; upward, downward, and rather sideways, I may apply one combing and another; eventually I'm bound to look, if not wonderful or shipshape, somewhat improved, maybe toward ununtidy.
I do nearly nothing but wander and divagate, n'est-ce pas? Among gathered chipmunks I'm this nutso-futso squirrel.