I’m writing to you using only my feet because my arms, hands and fingers are occupied with the blow dryer, a brush and plenty of prayer. You see, the other day, after not having had a pedicure at my local mani-pedi place for a good couple of months, I ventured down the hill and indulged my tootsies and I got so relaxed after having my tired old flippers massaged (rub, rub, rub oh heaven—RING! RING! RING!—want more? YES YES YES!!! Nine Million Minutes More Forever More Never Ending More!!!) that I asked the Ring Leader if I could have that hip looking skinny jeans guy in the corner trim my bangs (JUST A LITTLE!!!!!!!!) but before I knew it I was in the movie Andromeda Strain and my bangs looked like they’d been chewed off by a herd of vicious wolf eels and, I know you can’t get me my normal bangs that covered my helpless forehead back, but I was wondering do you think my decision to offer up my hair to these Feet People is the first sign of early onset dementia or do you think I was just high on that Five More Minute feeling?
—Holed Up In a Closet Outside Hoboken