I am walking up to the building up the road from me. It’s almost exactly the same as my building. Along the ground-floor are a string of small businesses mostly focusing on body parts – hair, nails, sore backs. Now and then an accountant or an interior designer surprises us and in one spot near my flat, a leatherworker blew our minds.
I have arranged a hair appointment for our dog with one such business lady named Eliska. I love Eliska for several reasons, first of which being that she is a badass. She works in a one-room no froufrou salon which looks as though it was previously used to torture people into handing out their secret gulas recipes.
The door swings open, the dog has already anticipated the arrival of Eliska (strong noses) and she dancing on her hindlegs and her tail is wagging in a frankly upsetting way. The room has one bed that would be home in a doctor’s office. Next to it is a pair of clippers and a box of cookies that our dog would cut our throats for. We agree that I will return in an hour and I leave. The dog grants me one pity yelp of sadness at my dismissal, but we both know it’s a lie.
Every two or so months my dog’s hair gets all matted and her fringe hides were eyes. She’s pretty wily to begin with, and the fringe just makes her look shifty and untrustworthy. It’s at times like these that she needs a haircut. And when she’s getting her haircut, I get mine. I walk a few buildings over.
The mellow Vietnamese dude waves me to the chair and I sit. Behind me, two women work on another two women’s nails. I zone out and go to a pleasant little sunken place wherein I can only grunt monosyllabic sounds to my barber and hope he doesn’t shave me into a mohawk. It’s one of the most trusting relationships I’ve ever had.
Once I wake up and get back to the groomer, she comments: ‘Jste dvojčata.’ You’re twins.
I’d love to claim her incorrect, but I’m not great at lying in Czech. We take out leave. More than a few people point out our twinness. At first, I resist, but once the dog forces me to pick her up and carry her – presumably because she’s traumatized from her haircut – I just lean my shoulder into it.
And why not? Once you get matching haircuts with a dog, there’s no going back. We could get matching leather jackets and ride a motorcycle through Hungary. She would of course sit sidecar. We would naturally wear goggles. Maybe we could start a rugby team.
By the time we get home – me sweating, she asleep – there are some reckonings to deal with. Do people think I’m weird? Am I going to develop my twin dog’s wonky eye? But these questions will have to wait until after our gristle byproduct cooking course next week.
