You don’t need it. Your hair looks great, you’re hair looks great.
Nah. I can’t buy it. For one thing, half the time he’s saying it, his nose is buried in something or other.
It’s nippy again. The sun is deceptive. The thermometer is telling me 43.
That hair that looks great is getting in my way as I swing my tennis arm. A little wild, but I need the extra motion to keep warm.
Kids at the next door court are half volleying, half talking. It’s cool to see that: two young boys toying with the game, with the afternoon.
I have to go. It’s a 6 mile ride for me – I tell Ed.
I pedal to Jason’s.
Happy New Year – I tell the color genius. I haven’t been here that long. He’s got a new tattoo. He’s into yoga more, too. There’s growth in my hair and growth in his life and on balance – I’d say we’re chuggin’ along in our orbits just fine.
I bike home more slowly. It’s near evening and I’m not in a hurry. Friday at dusk is a no hurry time.
Your hair’s okay, Ed tells me. At least he’s consistent.