The barbershop I patronize seems to have gone out of business. For want of a better idea in the brainpan underneath my unkempt mop yesterday, I went to a nearby outlet of a tacky chain operation promising customers a masculine atmosphere and friendly women armed with razors and scissors.
The hands of the gal I drew were shaking. Perhaps because of her impairment, she worked exceedingly slowly. During pauses in our discussion about music- we’re both fond of Fleetwood Mac- and life’s challenges- we traded tips on keeping our cool- I eavesdropped on other conversations.
A man told another barber that he patronizes the shop every two weeks. He was as bald as Charlie Brown. A tottering geezer who walked in with a buzzcut repeatedly told his barber that she didn't know what she was doing.
A terrestrial radio station blared all the while. Between advertisements for window replacement outfits, mortgage companies and weight loss schemes, we heard shopworn oldies by the likes of Duran Duran and current hits by pop stars including Harry Styles.
The sun had gone down by the time I got home. In an effort to recuperate from the sonic assault and quasi-creepy neck massage, I returned to Two Sisters. The Sarah Davachi work I characterized as “ecumenical drones” in naming it my favorite album of September connected me to a power even higher than Stevie Nicks.