The floor was a who's who of the city.
Hair congregated on the tiles like broken helix-es. End to end, the
salon had the potential for a genetic hybrid. DNA was thrown away
like carbon paper in diamond days before technology came about and
made carbon dating a passe endeavor. I looked down from my swivel
seat, dressed to the hilt in my geneticist smock I left a trail of
fingerprints—follicle growths that knew my name, my soul, my being.
No one ever thinks of hair
restoration, of wigs and piecemeal toupees and the genetic material
off the top of your head. The world is shrunk each time a wig is
bought or a faster iPhone comes one the market. Messages encrypt in
the palms of hands or on the tops of heads like raindrops. Everyone
knows everyone, or at least has the potential to know them. Usually
they don't, and society tugs and wars itself like a punch-drunk
acrobat. No one's the anchor and no one ever lifts a hat. Life is out
there spinning at 9 hundred miles an hour and people rarely slow it
down to see who's there, perhaps closer than they appear.
But I thought of what I left behind
that day. The deoxyribonucleic acid was firmament; a testament
that I tipped my hat—and the salon—by the way. I watched my Ps
(purines) As (adenine) and Gs (guanine) amass on the raised matted
floor that gave my encephalitic Delilah some height. She cleaned me
up well per my instructions. And then it hit me—with the proper
inclination, the right derisive tools, she could breed a new me—or
any head she's had the pleasure to know.
Oddballs
They're out there in salon panels,
tribunals of 8 balls, biding time on earth waiting for rings to be
check mated. To narrow the odds and grab the sods of grass to pull—to
tug and hope it does not war back. I walked out of that hair salon to
meet a distant relation, someone who'd been miles from me my whole
life. But people get further away as technology brings them to the
door, turn by turn, the global positioning situates things so no one
has to meet anyone. The trite gripe that men don't ask directions is
over—they won—and no one needs to slow down anything.
A gridlock
People from professions find each
other and work the gross into net. Thy chat and write to one another
across the world. However they may not find each other in the same
city or bar when actual human interaction is tried. It has happened
to me like that. Objects the closest do not always meet. But in my
case, they did, and I couldn't be happier. I don't own an iPhone,
although I did find people on Facebook from my home PC. But if I were
caught up in texting and googling on the run would my curiosity be
the same?
Patchwork
After meeting my other half, I feel
my life is complete. Unanswered strands of DNA—like in the
salon—fell into place. I yam what I yam, and now I know why that I
yam. I know why I vote like I vote or believe like I believe. I know
why I write and use language to bite at times. But, in the end, it
can all be traced back to that raised salon mat on which your chair
swiveled but your head sat straight.
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