Hair

I had a haircut the other day in the nearest my town has to a bloke’s barbers.

It’s only blokey in the sense that he doesn’t cut women’s hair.
There are no copies of the Current Bun, no Bensons, it's jazz - not Doc Fox.

Robed up, I go straight into the chair. Patrice looks at me in the mirror

He tilts his head slightly

« Crisis, eh ? »



Could he mean my hair?

The Lehman Brothers?

The Lehman brothers’ hair?

I hovered, befuddled, then started on a recap of what the radio had said about "the events"

The moment had passed, we relaxed.

Patrice clipped, nodded and lowed

I eased into my everyman economic discourse. A brand new expert, like all the others.

As I splashed around in my new found métier, I thought briefly of my friend Nico.
He is waiting to hear if he is one of the 300 they are laying off at T. I.
Bit of a dude, Nico. A funky drummer in the evenings; but even dudes worry about losing their jobs.

Undertakers and midwives, however, sleep soundly.

Hair continues to grow.