She cuts my hair.
Her own is a starburst of magenta and yellow, fireworks on display. It must be fun, every morning, I think, to stand your hair up on end. It must make you feel constantly surprised.
We talk. She cuts my hair whenever I'm in town, and though months pass before we see each other again, we always pick up as though she's just dunked my scalp under water the day before. We talk about our work and travels, we gossip about celebrities, we mourn or praise the… Continue