Matt waltzed into the Supercuts in Tenleytown, the first neighborhood he’d lived in when arriving in DC. He rarely came up here anymore these days, not since the land itself had rejected him by sending a flood his way. Not since he’d picked up and moved into an apartment way downtown in Chinatown. Yet here he was again, having rolled himself up to the northwest heights of Washington. Because he was a man on a mission. He was here to get his hair cut.
The bell attached to the sturdy glass door tinkled as he entered. He looked around and saw no one else being served, just him and the handful of Hispanic barbers. Were they still called barbers if they were women? Surely the title of ‘Barbarella’, while alluding to both their Spanish and feminine natures, entailed far more galactic responsibility than merely cutting hair? Matt was interrupted from his reverie of zero gravity stripteases by their excited greetings.
“You! You’re the Superman!” the barberella in the back called out. He’d shown her the picture of his last Halloween costume a few months prior figuring they’d appreciate it. The Superman logo shaved into his chest and Supercuts, how could that combination not be incredible? Of course they’d appreciated it and remembered him.