Haircut in the Snow

Snow hurtles us forward into
the year. At night, faces are lit
from below because of the snow.
Waiting for a streetcar at
the Spadina subway line. How
unfinished these underground
stations look. The raw cement
and railings, it's like looking
at the back of bits of furniture
meant to stand against a wall.
Like I'm inside the machinery
that makes cities. I've promised
that I'll leave the party after
two hours, but I'm enjoying myself.
I meet a woman who's a hairdresser.
Do I need a haircut. Oh yes. Well
where can I find you. You can't afford
me. Well what's a man to do. I could
cut your hair now. Right here? Yes,
here.
Her apartment is next door. She fetches
her scissors. And while the food
critic and a group of women from
Montreal dance to Wild Cherry, I
sit in a chair and have a hair cut.
Her boyfriend comes over to check it
out. Remember, he says, youre ahead
of the curve.
I make the fucking curve, she says.