the hair is okay... it is everywhere. it is on the floor, it is in the cracks of the table, on the seat, in liquids, on that towel in the drawer. it sticks to all utensils in the hands of the barber. He still does the best job of them all. He is a good one. He works quickly, quietly. And he also listened to my request to be honest with my hair. I know I am losing it. I am not going to hide it by him letting a strand longer and putting it into some strange spin. I am not that kind of guy.
I sometimes would not say anything, just go home and cut it off. Just like that.
Cut.
My hair used to be long. I had it cut shorter in Toronto, after we knew that we would go home to a different New York.
"You look like a real person." Chris said when he first saw me...
The hair then got only shorter...
It is not really about the hair, now is it?... or is it?...
the weekend was a fiasco... this week will be a fantastic one...
I have to promise this to myself, or I will go insane.
Each piece of hair does contain the complete genetic information, does it?