CANNOT BE RESTING ON
NOTHING AT ALL
On the day that I went to call on
Nestor, he was again working
upstairs at his hair-cutting salon.
Second-floor, Fifth at 51th, all
sorts of fussy colors and decor.
He had a partner too, some other
fellow with a peculiar name. Now
forgotten. And the place it gone
now too. Butt his was thirty years
ago intact. There were a few fancy
females sitting around, under those
hair-awning things, and a nail and
manicure section, also in use.
-
I liked it there because it smelled
really rich. A neighborhood of
money, it seemed, of transience,
where nothing stayed. No one really
'lived 'there; it was just a location.
They offered me coffee or tea. The
sort of little pastries and things you
ed up paying for dearly in the end.
-
I was only there to drop off some
proofs and go over colors. No work,
not an appointment, nothing of hair.
That made it easy but I felt out of place.
It's a funny world, with all these odd
designations : even then, sexuality and
gender, ideas and opinions. They certainly
all lived in a different world than did I
-
It was OK, and still is. Some things
you don't touch with a ten-foot pole.
Other things you hug, and engulf them
whole. This was - maybe - somewhere
in between. It wasn't Christmas, but
it already seemed like a gift.
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