In 1980, i took a vacation on the Carolina coast with my dog. I rode down with my brother, who lives in Wilmington. I hitchhiked back to Illinois (i worked at the U of I then). I was picked up by a guy who i later decided thought that i made good cover, what with the dog and all--i'm certain he was smuggling drugs from Miami. We got to New York, and, as he was going for a haircut, he suggested that i do the same. (I hitchhiked a lot when young, and knew quite well that keeping clean and well-groomed would get me more rides, and get rides sooner--i even had a beach towel for the dog to lie on beside the highway.) He paid, which was good, because it was expensive as hell by 1980 standards, without considering the tips he gave to everyone in sight (the entire time we were in New York, people kept assuming we were mafiosi, probably because i'm big and could pass for Italian, and he was dropping tips like a wannabe drops names). They brought out a dog basket of the appropriate size for Morgan, and brought her a bowl of ice water. I was given my choice of a rum cooler or white wine (endless refills)--and Enrique ("Oh God, i just
love cutting naturally curly hair, and so few Anglos have it.
). What made me think of it was, the place was called Salon Salon. Ok, as you were . . .
