As I head out to chop my mop, I randomly mention to S that I hope I don’t get a talkative hairdresser.
“Just don’t speak,” she says.
But I can’t not speak without being rude.
But I can’t, without being rude.
We look at each other.
“Okay,” I say. “You be me, and I’ll be the hairdresser.”
“I can be you.”
I’m not sure what that means, but okay. We begin:
Me as Hairdresser: “So, how you doing today?”
S as Me: “Good. I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately.”
that we’ve driven them from their temples
doesn’t mean at all that the gods are dead.
~ Constantine P. Cavafy
I can’t imagine at all what she means, suggesting I speak of death frequently. Unless, of course, she means that death is under every word I speak.
Yes, in that case, I concur.
And today? The mop is chopped. It is gone. It is no more. And because of my habit of tucking it up in all sorts of deranged flops, absolutely everyone is commenting on it now that it’s down.
Yes. They all remark on how long it’s grown…