Rita does not smile. Not once, not even accidentally. Her dumpling body, poured into a Good Charlotte tee-shirt, moves catlike around the swivel chair as she brandishes shears above my head. Under the pressure of her tattooed fingers, I twirl twirl twirl in the chair, and suddenly, brown block bangs have been chopped to my brows. She says something sarcastic about Zooey Deschanel and my pale skin and studies her banggage artistry. Before the black backwall of the shop, our faces hang like twin Lunas in the glass mirror void. Hers, a little higher, is a perfect (pale) circle, crossed with black liner and dotted with silver studs twinkling in unlikely places. She holds her mouth poised on the tip of the scissor blade. In the mirror, my smiling eyes travel to hers, but the dark eyes squint at me until, face flushed, I lower mine. The wedding ring tattoo on her (equally pale) left hand is unfinished. When I return for a trim two weeks later, I hear she does not work there anymore.