Brooklyn Haircut 1998

She broke up with me.

The next day I called in sick.  I walked North.  Ina  back room a Puerto Rican man washed my hair.  I tried to relax.  I held my glasses in my hands.  I wish he would scratch harder.  I wish this would never stop.  I wish he was Jess and she loved me.  I wish I was dead.

He cut my hair two inches.  He brushed it back.  He blew it up.  He held up the back mirror.  “Now, you are looking good”.



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