I’d have liked to get a haircut two weeks ago about this time but I seem to recall I had more pressing impressions to make than clean cut. Nose too, kept just so.
I found myself a bit early for today’s appointment, yet no one else was getting trimmed so I was immediately sat and draped. The phone rang. There was talk of tequila, and when he hung up, there was more talk, for we both had stories. Mine will be kept off of this site even though it happened well more than thirty years ago, except to say that I might use it in a forthcoming series of stories about small town furtive glances emboldened.
The barber’s was much tamer, as it involved a bottle gulleted during a round of golf before lunch, the sickness that followed, as a matter of fact three days of the heaves, Sisyphusian carpeted stairs, plus skinless knees and elbows.
Yes, there should be my book. It’s not so much that I see things as I blend what I see. Right now there is one story, or maybe just a sketch. Ask elsewhere.
And a stitch: