He snaps my head back into place. Physically, he is in total control. I love the act of submission that comes with sitting in a barber's chair. With his middle fingers pressed to my temples, he will guide my head into the desired position. He will set my posture straight, force my neck back. And then in a moment, he will with gentle movements push against the back of my head, force my chin to my chest. He will do this with the softest of touches because he knows I will submit.
Curls all around me on the floor, no longer on my head. I paid the cashier up front at the Astor Place Barbershop and paused to check myself out, adjust my hair, in the mirror above the ATM, the mirror with the sign taped to it: "When You Look Good, Your Money Looks Good!!!"
I thought that by cutting my hair, I could change how I was feeling, that I would no longer be overwhelmed by allergies, by sneezing and blowing my nose every couple minutes. I sneezed as soon I walked back out on the street, reached for tissues somewhere in my bag to blow my nose.
Tonight though, haircut not working, I took my co-worker's advice and smoked weed, and now don't feel these allergies at all, feel instead the new Daft Punk album and also feel the insecurity and cockiness (twins born from the same mom) of Nomi Malone, having just re-watched Showgirls to prepare myself for seeing the musical tomorrow.
And the dreadlocked downstairs stoner neighbor is still beating his carpet in the backyard at it approaches 11 at night. He is beating the dust out of it with a metal pipe of some sorts.
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