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The Hairdresser

Everything in life has culminated to this moment. Sitting in a leather chair with long worn padding, grasping long thin fingers against the denim of your pocket, counting change, making sure; Hairdressers and farriers both only have three questions: how do you do? What do you do? And who do you do? All of which surprisingly could be logically answered with “good man” Mull it over. One time my Uber driver told me to be careful of the wolf. They all think I look 16, remind them of a daughter, a sister, a wife, the girl they held down at the junior prom, the body shown earlier on the news, and I just smile and thank them, what else am I supposed to say; me and you, we’re just masks at the feet of false altars, praying to false gods; last time I went to church it wasn’t church at all, it must’ve been in a dream, the pews shook as I walked down the aisle; never been good with time, the unexpected, that’s why I listen to true crime podcasts, call us crazy but you’ll never call us unprepared; so I sit in this tattered old chair, with my unexceptional neutral hair and I raise my pink cheeks, just as I was told and nod when you say, just an inch?

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