This is Sindy, at Warp Speed 5

:o

What's this? Writing every other day. It is truly most remarkable.

Well, usually I feel like writing after having read something, y'know. Now I just roll a cigar round'n'round because my mind has not absorbed any literary gem in ever so long, the Vampire Lestat being the last truly most luscious thing I digested. Though the warmth from it bubbled through my system for days after, the lack of a suitable nutrient from that time on has left me flailing miserably. Back to me and my ideas, and the exhausting task of putting them down. Little sparks of fairy dust flying off, witherign and dissolving in the wind. Disolving.

As numbers shoot up and down my screen, it is not so rare an occassion that I might sit back and twiddle my thumbs, vainly protecting them from the dear Devil. After all, what is there to do now but wait. Wait and flood my screen with a barrage of meaningless words, in the neverending quest of self-definition.

You don't understand me. Phaw! I don't understand me. Understanding is oooooover-rated.

I'm having a mildly destructive week at work really. Keep breakign things. Blamelessly. Smile.

:-)

How obliging.

And now (*lock fingers, palms outwards, push so that you hear your phalanxes pop, like some maestro, pianist*) for a story. Yes that was phalanxes. P'raps it was phalanges. P'raps not. My memory... it fails me. Ever so often. Ever so rarely.

(*clear throat Mulan style - Ping*)

Like all stories this story needs a setting. And the setting is this. A barbers shop, lacking a quartet. Quaint swirly red-white thing hovering above the door, that staple of barbers, the name of which I forget.

What little sunlight there is filters through the unblocked portion of the windows. Where it isn't stopped by the black open sign, a shockingly fair price list, and the customary phtographs of people displaying hairstyles they couldn't possibly have obtained from this establishment.

Opening the door brings that smell of perfume mixed with antiseptic rushing to flood your senses. A great deal more agreeable than the undiluted formula used by most hospitals. A fellow ( because he could only be a 'fellow', this most distinguished sort of gentleman ) sits on two of the four waiting chairs, with their faded peach covering. Curly black hair, and a leather jacket of the sort that is the leather jacket, with an air of European-ness about him. He plays with a child. Blonde, girl, presumably his daughter. It lends a certain authenticity to the image.

The coats once taken hang one after the other in a stately row, as the Greek, for he could only be Greek, (perhaps Cypriot?) barber guides the next innocent towards his chair. Here he practises his craft, in front of the giant mirror adorned with pictures of his home, and his family.

If only the lights were a little more dim, one might be inclined to think it's the scene from an old movie. The perfect front. For the mafia. Where they can keep an eye on their protected businesses, from the safety and comfort of a self-run establishment such as this. What a perfect setup. Too perfect. Perfect enough to lose oneself in, to the extent that the cry of alarm that should come as the jagged blades comes swooping down is lost. And then it is too late.

The damage done, all that is left is something to reflect upon. But it is only hair. It grows back.

It's all a part, big or small, of the grand adventure.

And they lived happily ever after.

^_^