The fact that I’m resembling Elvis has become a concern, so when I get a surprise call from my hairdresser at midnight, I’m overjoyed.
“What are ya doin?” he asks.
“I’m in bed, awake, after falling asleep after lunch, and you?”
“Up for a color and a cut?”
“Well I’m up. Will ya take a check?”
Which is why I’m at the all night ATM hummin’ a happy tune.
I tell my doorman who’s like Dillinger in a uniform, who I’m expecting.
“Mums the word,” he says, in islandese so it comes out more like, Mooms the word.
15 minutes later.
Chagall shows up as if we’re doing espionage, giving me a strong urge to put on a trench coat.
He snakes in, looks both ways, mask in place like he’s about to raid the safe, lugging in a huge bag filled with what I can only call, female essentials, proceeding to mow my head like the lawn, using an electric razor I so hope doesn’t wake the building,
There’s so much hair on my floor, I’m thinking of crocheting a toup for a friend.
Then he washes that gray right outta my hair in the kitchen sink, and though now in a neck brace, look a whole lot better, despite it being a little short.
Like I’ve enlisted in the Wacs, that sounds rather apt, doesn’t it?
As Chagall is about to leave, Dillinger covertly asks, “Hey, could you give me a trim?”
Only in New York folks. Only in New York.