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.

“Ladies, ladies, please! Don’t blow my secret identity!” Matt smirked and held up both hands as he slid into one of the swivel chairs, “And isn’t it supposed to be ‘Super-hombre’?”

It probably wasn’t actually Super-hombre.

They laughed politely and the one standing nearest to him asked what number guard he wanted on the clipper. He always got a very simple cut: buzz on the sides, scissors on the top, but couldn’t remember the guard length he’d chosen.

“I dunno, a three, a four?” Matt turned and called across the room, “What’d we pick last time?”

The woman he’d come to think of as his handler and the queen bee around the corner shop held up four fingers, an amused smile creeping up her face.

“A four! A four it is! I’ll remember next time, I promise!”

He probably wouldn’t remember.

The woman started cutting his hair and Matt listened to them as they chattered in Spanish, speaking too quickly for him to pick out anything more than the stray word. Gibberish, then “tonight” followed by something with the word “to cut” that sent the women giggling. He started to let his mind drift, but realized this was one of the women who hadn’t actually cut his hair before.

“By the way, my ears are uneven, don’t use them to trim the sideburns. They’re not to be trusted!”

He had to warn every barber, lest they succumb to his asymmetry. She shushed him, as if this wasn’t vital information, necessary to her task, and resumed the whirlwind of Spanish.

She probably didn’t believe him.

Every month he got a haircut in this place and reveled in the futility of the whole thing. Every month he’d find his hair grown out and in need of a re-shearing, and every month these women would tame it again. It was a Sisyphean task really.

The white noise of the clippers blended with the radio hits from the past few decades that mixed with the smell of talcum powder which swirled with his barber’s perfume as she moved purposefully around him. The whole intoxicating mix had Matt nodding off…

And then he was done, paying for his haircut with a sense that something was missing from the ritual… he’d forgotten his Supercuts punch card! Ten cuts and the eleventh was free, and he’d forgotten it. But Matt was unperturbed as he left through the tinkling glass door and waved goodbye to the barberellas (who’d promised that they would punch his card when they next saw him).

There was no doubt that he’d be back next month.