“Give me the Subtlest Haircut,” I said, and this was yesterday. Quiet tears poured down my haircutter’s rosy cheeks.

“Three dollars extra,” she said, wiping them away.

“Oh god, what,” I said, eyes darting around the mirror. “Please don’t cry.”

“My rotator cuff,” she said. “Fucked it up.”

Funny, because a couple of weeks ago I did the smallest bit of research on torn rotator cuffs since I was looking for a plausible baseball-related injury I could name-drop in the story I’m working on. I’ll add that I still, despite the minimal research, used the torn rotator cuff implausibly and I’ll have to revisit the issue in the second draft, and what a bright, exciting morning that will be in the year 2019, preparing myself for another bleak day of shooting down lifelike robots, idly playing a single note on my piano.

“Oh jeez.”

“Got in a bad car accident two years ago and then I also, see, I hold my arm up like this all day, cutting hair, which just aggravates it. I’m actually not even supposed to be doing this.”

“I hate to be causing you pain.”

“Gotta put food on the table.”

“Amen to that.” Used only in situations of simulated sympathy.

“Ow.”

“About once a year I decide to just shave it all off. Maybe I should just pay you and go take care of the rest myself? Maybe we’d both be better off in the end?”

“I won’t buy my kids food with unearned money. It’ll taste like cremains. You use mousse, or gel?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

[ True, False ]