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2002-02-06 || 6:27 p.m. || when it rained three months straight || typewriting sounds and sewing machine sounds and competing television stereo siren bus, that's what it was like. heat from the blue flame of the stove and the distinct smell of garbage. cutting hair one head after the other: the luke the michael the jeff the dan, variations on the same idea, really. consistency is what's important. and at the end you stand in front of them and study the sides for too long. they study you and with one you blush and stammer and with one you creep onto his lap and push away the stray clippings from his forehead to kiss it and with one you refuse the free offers for el farolito and magic green salsa and with one you deny questions of balding and thinning and man-things. you cut here and there and make patterns with the comb, you try not to notice that these boys are seated in front of you shirtless, naked skin, pale under the light of the kitchen. you rub at shoulders with a dingy green towel. you sight the broom and dustpan across from you. you cluck your tongue and kiss their cheeks goodnight; you accept their thank yous like flowers, like tiny artifacts to study later. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |