I, especially on a March afternoon, don't usually have any problem with hailing a cab however, this particular day it was just hell. Today was the day set for the rally. It's about the vice-president's visit, and because the whole university is divided on the ordeal, a rally was set up. Supporters, opponents - different sides of the same dirty coin - all came and shouted in unison how one side is dumb and theirs isn't. This was cool and all, but every time I called a cab, the same hoard of idiots would try to block its way and force their placards on the poor driver's windshield. 1 cab, 2 cab, 3 cabs past and I come to wonder: why don't they just run 'em over?
An hour later, I figure I would just walk the whole kilometer. Michael's is down by to get my hair done. It's not long but it's not short either. It's curtained, much similar to Win Butler's Funeral era, only a tad shorter. I've been going to the same barber for a year now. Michael has a way with scissors and by the look in his works, you could tell he's a gift from the heavens - a godly artisan.
I push the door open and a light bell rings from the inside. I was greeted by a curious amalgam of talc, hair products and coffee. You ever smell the scent from an old book, or an empty library, or a gasoline tank right after you refuel? It's the same thing. It sucks you in. Or rather, you suck it in. Michael was nowhere in sight so I sat on a chair, waiting for him to appear. As the air-conditioner swings past, the smell returns and I could only flinch in return. God, I just love it. I know it's supposed to be irrelevant, but I come here each time and each time I do, I smell the heck out of the room.
"Cut?" a blonde guy with a face mask asks, as he materialize from the toilet. He walks to the air-conditioner and adjusts the thermostat.
"Ugh, is Michael around?"
"Michael's in the hospital. He had a stroke last night."
"Oh. Is he going to be alright?"
"Don't know. Michael's old. Maybe he needs to rest for a while."