Something sacred about getting his hair cut, this half hour of enforced blindness, his glasses folded away on the ledge in front of him. A half hour of meditation. He closes his eyes to the blurred reflection in the mirror and takes stock instead of the sounds around him, the piped pop music, the hairdryers, the snip of scissors; accepts the sensation of another man’s hands in his hair, of cuttings settling on his face, in his ears, down his neck.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>