“Thank you, Scissor Seven,” she whispered.
The woman pushed her hair aside. Her face was pale, peaceful, but her eyes were two dark wells. “I died in 2017. December 31st, 11:59 PM. A car accident. I was laughing at a text message. I never saw the headlights.” Scissor Seven -2018-2018
The shop returned to normal. Heat. Buzz of a broken fan. Dai Bo looked at the calendar. The strange writing was gone. It now simply read: “July 1, 2018. First day of the season.” “Thank you, Scissor Seven,” she whispered
The haircut took three hours. Seven couldn’t feel her hair—it was like cutting fog. But he listened. She told him about her favorite noodle shop (closed in 2019, but she didn’t know that yet). Her cat, Mochi (still alive, waiting by her old apartment window). The boy she had a crush on in high school (he became a baker, named his first sourdough after her). “I died in 2017