My barber blames his old job as a mafia hitman for why he names all his instruments. “This one here, I call her Karma,” he says as he caresses his gleaming scissors.
“Summer cut,” I say, mostly ignoring him, “so take a little off the top and everything off my neck.” He leans my head down, sets straight to work with a snip, click, cut, whirr.
He reminds me of the money I never paid him from last year’s basketball championship when I had five thousand reasons to love Wisconsin over Duke, and then plunges the scissors into my neck. Karma sucks.
Hemingway brought us the six-word story. (For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.) He’s much better than me, so I’m bringing the six-sentence story. Come back Monday for “C” since the challenge gives us Sundays off.