 THE SUPERCUTS PHILOSOPHERYesterday afternoon, I got my hair cut by a girl with skin more purple than the late afternoon sky spreading lilacs across God’s checkered floors. The girl used her razor just a bit too much, mixing blonde with brown like an interpretive painting around my chair. The woman beside us was going on and on about her man’s new job stamping an apple on the backside of every iPhone. Purple Skin and I both laughed at the ignorance until I noticed the fresh ink curling in the shape of a bruise around her arm. The girl who didn’t use her scissors enough explained that her tattoo was like a hieroglyphic. That night she was going to quit her job at Supercuts leave her friends and her family, and live in a van for the next two years wherever there are trees. The girl had the same book of Bukowski resting against her tip jar that I had left next to my toothbrush this morning, yet, on my way out, as I called my girlfriend to tell her we should buy an RV, I couldn’t help but wonder how the figure in the girl’s tattoo could look so afraid, while she could seem so alive.
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