Whitney

Whitney does my hair. I’m not an animal after all.

Big hands. Confident hands.

“East Coast or West Coast?” she’ll ask and I’ll tell her where I’m bound and she just does the rest.

One time we were off to Ethiopia.

“Border villages or in-country?” she asked.

She always washes my head and I don’t complain about that. I might have even come to enjoy the scrubbing over the years.

Whitney starts and ends sentences but rarely finishes them rather opting for a more abrupt, “Right?” or “You know what I mean?”

I’ve grown fond of her broken cadence, her big hands, her syrupy gossip, and her raspy chuckle.

I tell her about the people I encounter and she says, “You should write some of this shit down one day.”

Then she tells me about her week and says, “You should write some of this shit down one day too.”

Like today when she told me about the rather biggish tumor they’d found on Monday.

“Going in on Thursday to cut that mother fucker out,” she added.

“Fuck that thing, Whitney,” I replied.

“Damn straight,” she said. “Fuck that thing, indeed.”

A little quiet after that.

Before I left she touched my hand and said, “Hey. You might want to call before your next appointment, yeah?”

I told her I prefer to take my chances; that she ain’t got rid of me that easy.