“Posaďte se,” she says. Sit down.

She’s all of five feet tall with dark eyes. She points to the chair and I stare at it as though I am eyeing up a stocky Jedi nemesis. Noticing my gaze mixed of awe and consternation, she pats the seat with her fingers and smiles.

I sit down and she pulls the smock over me, tucks in a towel and starts pulling at my hair in scientific inquiry oozing with imagined sexuality. “Co to bude?” She asks. What’ll it be?

“Skratit normální, mašine v zádech,” I say. Normal trim, machine in the back – in painfully bastardized Czech. I show her that I want the clippers on the sides and back, not the top. This has happened once.

“A vousy také?” And the beard too?

I begin to sweat, don’t let her do it, dammit, I swear to myself. I take a deep breath. My beard is full and thick and I don’t want her to trim away my one and only lumberjack quality.

“Ne, dekuju,” I say, no thanks, but it’s clear that I haven’t convinced either of us.

With an invisible click of her thumb she snaps on the clippers and presses them into the back of my neck, rendering me a melting block of Camembert. My eyes glaze over and where once there was a metro station barber shop, there is now a temple atop the Himalayas.

Damn, it has begun again.

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I wake up in the mood for a leisurely Saturday morning. I boil the coffee, open my kindle and get into reclining mode. It’s just cool enough outside that lying under covers isn’t uncomfortable and my pajamas have become a fourth layer of skin I have termed the Comfortodermis.

I spend a blissful hour drifting between sleep and the grizzly tale of serial murder that I’m currently reading. It is times such as these that my lack of interest in spawning is solidified, as I am allowed the pleasures of sleeping, lounging, reading and writing. These joys are heightened by scratching, yawning and leaving the seat up after peeing.

My somnolent state is not fully recognized, however, as I do share my flat with another soul.

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