Maya cuts hair in the garage, just inside the huge rolling door. There's something so compelling about the relationship between the cutter and the sitter. Fast fingers, smooth combing, gleaming tandem shears flicking in the sunlight. The feeling of soft and sharp feelings hands and tools on my head is so luxurious.
When I call Maya and hairdresser, she demurs. She has worked professionally in three states, but life got in the way of her every making a strong, consistent career run. She cuts every so often now, for friends and family. She stopped cutting my hair last year sometime, when I foolishly objected to doing it in the bathtub. But I got some "free haircut" coupons from her recently as a present, so maybe I can be back in the chair soon.