Haibun
Cutting loose
I changed my salon though it is closest to our house, only for the reason that my decades-old hairdresser had already mined much data sufficient to write my biography. It is another thing if the same is anything worthwhile or if he could write in the place. I am surprised how some like me open up to their coiffures or coiffeuses quickly just because their heads are in the hands of those tonsorial artists who I am afraid are way better than lie detectors in dubious polygraphs. When knife or scissors stops in mid-air over the face, i. e., hanging over the heads, it is an enough cue to spill the beans. Even wives are not so adept with whatever they hold in hand to extract confessions.
And so I kept changing salons or choosing different stylists untested theretofore. During my sojourn in the USA, I felt not so testy for a change. This was when the African-American woman cosmetologist in the salon started small talk. What I liked about her was, besides scratching the surface of my bio not exactly like Visa Officer, she even complimented me with an epithet 'handsome', be it another cosmetic touch. When I went to another salon next time, the Persian-American woman cosmetologist there, with thirteen years of expertise, praised me no less and gave cinnamon tea too. She asked where I came from, who I was with, what and how I did, and enquired what my plans for the day were.
She finally proved to me that a salon wherever it is in the world is definitely a place to part with hair and handsome tips of even the other kind, i.e., our info.
flatulence...
thankful for small mercies
in the windy place
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