FROZEN BORSCHT SALON
Yesterday I heard a man say something in Russian to his children. I imagine he was referencing the storm we were walking through as compared to winters in his native cheery Siberi-a. Probably went something like, “Why, when I was young we didn’t have clothes, we had to wear the snow to keep us warm!” How do they push their strollers filled with plastic bags through a blizzard? Plastic bags and kids. Walk. Trudge. Drag. I’ve never seen anyone so pale. Dark circles on his dark circles. Oh, wait, that’s me I’m looking at in the stylist’s mirror. Pale. Drawn. Gray. Until she finishes cutting my hair and then…she must step on a button or something because all of a sudden when she’s through I look new. Tan, even. Like when the butcher switches on the pink light in his refrigerated display case so the old rotting flesh he can’t move looks fresh and new again. You know what sounds fun? Vitamin D. And a train bound for the sun.