Hair is best when it is being chopped off your head. The green of the earth and the brown of me, curling together by my toes. The brown is softer but the green feels more clean, does not cling, does not require a shower. Cutting hair in your front yard will attract the questioning of inquisitive neighbors, a guy named Skip, telling you you missed some spots and talking about the yard, the yard you are cutting your hair in, and the yard whose grass, he, Skip, cuts.
Hair is best when it floats around in a tub of water that does not drain well after being washed with suds suds and more of the foamy suds off of bodies, where it has clung to shoulders, bellies, and the backs of necks. It swirls around the bather, by his feet again, right where it belongs. Where it is best.
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