i feel all itchy, like ’twas my hairs just cut. mais non: ’twas i doing the cutting, i ester never-held-a-razor. ’twas krissy patient in my white wooden chair and krissy’s hairs falling gentle onto the cope post to a soundtrack of butchies–bitchandanimal–ani–catiecurtis–teganandsara–dar. using cuong’s shaver (“it only has one setting,” he says hesitantly as he extends it to us) we (i should say we; tho i handled most of it, she took over from time to time) buzzed her hair down to slightly-longer-than fuzz length. it was a spur of the moment type decision, as was her presence at my apartment in the first place. one impulse led to another: supermarket –> dinner –> why not get rid of those unnecessary inches. neither of us had anything else to do with our evenings.
post, both cautious. she showered and i dressed her in my mustard seed shirt, by turns cowering and simpering, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. it ain’t perfect. patches reveal my initial clumsiness with scissors. the uneven back hammers in the point. butbutbut what can one do, what’s done is done, etc. and anyway it looks fine. one side is definitively better than the other, the side i did second and with more confidence. she looks cute. older. more intimidating.
*phew* my nerves are wracked. i think i’ll hold off playing hairdresser again for a while. stick to the things i know, like, uh, reading. tho i have to admit, roots is a lot less fun now that kunte has left africa. i have a sneaking suspicion it’s all downhill from here.