It was a pretty regular morning in the hurley-burley, rough and tumble life of the Compound. Up around first light, sitting on the steps of the back deck, drinking hot tea and watching the grass grow. One perfect sunrise, except that it was cool and overcast, maybe about to rain, like England in May.
A ragged peacock hen flew into the yard. It strutted and pecked, I sipped tea and pondered the next evolution. It wasn't complex.
|ME 262 Going Down. Pilot, Get Out!|
Say your prayers, walk the dog to the pick 'n steal (filling station), visit the sick, then get a haircut. Good plan. Clear, simple, achievable, and it was all going so well. Until the plan crashed and burned like an ME 262 on fire and spinning out of control.
Wildcat Cuts was shut. I don't know why, neither, apparently, did they. "Shut till October 17" said the legend on the ghoul painted plate glass door. No reason given. Hunh. Veronica's, SE HABLA ESPANOL, was shut too. No excuse, just coz. So much for industry and service in this bucolic slice of what used to be a great nation.
|Now We're Talkin'|
Then Quality Cutz came to the rescue. They were open, weirdly, and I strode in. "You do haircuts?" I asked and in case you think that's redundant, think again. "Sure we do, mon," said Alphonso. He was from Mexico and alright. For him, Quality Cutz was his home. I told him to "cut it short and don't carve anything weird into it."
He didn't, and I'll go back there again. Support local business; Lord knows, there's little of it left, and that's just the hair.
Your Old Pal,