again. It was necessary. Covered in fertilizer and cement and storm water and drying in the humid night air, walking down Elston with a coworker named Ross (I only meet Ross’s in the city—Chicago, a city of Ross’s, mostly card carrying lawyers
[“And I promise you, Ross,” I said to Ross, coworker, “I am in no need of legal advice”])
when I determined that I was going to cut my hair off
again. It was Jesus. He asked me while we were moving bags of rocks (rocks, say it quick, sounds like Ross) and Jesus asked me,
"Does that get hot?"
Jesus has a little fro, a scruffy beard. He’s probably high. He likes to use both hand dryers at the same time for minutes on end, giggling.
"I’ve had it for ten years," I said to Jesus, coworker, "I’m used to it."
But I wasn’t used to all the rock dust, the bags of cement splitting open and spilling on my sweat-wet shirt, the bags of fertilizer that are made from fish, smelling like rotten fish, splitting open and spilling onto my shirt, my face, my hair. I wasn’t ready for the thunderstorm.
A few unanswered texts later and I cracked open my first can of Bell’s Two Hearted and got out my tiny pair of scissors and cut away. I was nervous. I was pretty sober. But it turned out all right. I look in the mirror and I think
This is Kyle Brown