At the hairdressers
At the hairdressers I sat in the chair my face directly reflected in the large mirror before me. I am forced to look. There is nowhere else to go. -Here, I’ll take your bag. Upon which she placed my orange cloth bag on the chair on my right, visible but unreachable. Out of the way of the ubiquitous strands of hair that will eventually infiltrate it if it remains where I had dumped it on the floor beside me. -How are you? And I know that she genuinely cares. We have known each other for a long time I answer with the obligatory ‘Fine’. -And the dogs? How are they? She places a black folded towel behind my neck followed by the ritual draping of the upper half of y body with the black material necessary to prevent hairs and dye from decorating my clothes. I’ll have to tell her. -I had to put the old one down last week. I’m missing her. The young one is grieving. So am I. There. It’s out. -Oh, she says with prolonged sympathy and authenticity as shown in her whole face w