in honor of my hairdresser

I don’t remember her name. Sometimes we cheek-kissed when I arrived and others I just sat down in the chair.

For the past three years living in the center of São Paulo, I have used the same hairdresser. Her place is almost at the Minhocão on Rua General Jardim down from Escola da Cidade and the IAB where the new Ze Deli recently supplanted the bookshop at street level, near where the trans women sexworkers hang out in the afternoon and night. My hairdresser is a trans woman too, either from the Northeast or Bahia … I forget. Sometimes she would jab my head with the clippers while entranced by some vignette of a telanovela on the TV. I was not afraid to say ‘ouch’ to get her attention. She cut my hair better than her cute colleague at the first chair. I went yesterday to get a haircut and hung at the door motioning to the receptionist to ask if she was around. She waved me inside. She had something serious to share with me. There was a new stylist at the third chair. She is having her leg amputated the receptionist said sotto voce.

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