On Saturday I went to see my hairdresser. It was a clandestine trip. We parked two blocks away, put on our masks, I looked like a pirate in my red bandana, hair blowing in the wind, and walked to the salon. It was in darkness. My hairdresser had shut the blinds so nobody could see in, he also had the lights turned off. He gave us the secret knock – three and a half raps on the door, like in the movies. He opened up, and we squeezed in. He was wearing a mask and looked thinner than before the quarantine.
“An operation like this requires a drink and a piano,” Alf said.
“And your wife is Ingrid Bergman,” my hairdresser said.
“Of all the salons around here, we walk into yours,” Alf said.
“Play it again, Sam.” My hairdresser turned up the music on his computer.
“We’ll always have Carmel,” I said.
“Here’s looking at you, kid. What do you want done to your hair?” he said.
“Whatever you want, since this is what every hairdresser wants to hear,” I said.
“Ingrid, this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said.
“And when you’re done, work on my head, we must look good for our transit back home,” Alf said.