Oct 03
Scapegoat One day, when I was 10 and out past dark but barely, I knew my father would be furious. My father worked all day in a machine shop. He came home evenings, his skin black with graphite, his mood molten steel. When my mother told my father to beat me for some infraction I’d …
May 19
The Devil’s Haircut I was in sixth grade when my mother, fed up with the long blonde hair I’d resist brushing, sick of the knots and tangles that grew like nettle-ridden shrubs underneath, took me to Esther. Esther was, in theory, a beautician, which is what people called hair stylists back then, but I never …
