The Magic Bus Stop

A couple months ago, the woman corralling my hair into shape filled me in on her vacation excursions. She had been to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee several times because her husband wanted to go there. They were going again this year, and she asked me if I had been there. I replied that I had not, and she asked me where I wanted to go. I replied that I wanted to go to the desert. Once again, I demonstrated my uncanny ability to crush a conversation. The desert was definitely a foreign concept to the hairdresser and why anyone would want to go to one clearly perplexed her. I saw her mentally discard my reply and retreat to the safety of Dolly Parton’s virtual arms. To keep her from going all Edward Scissorhands on me, I willed the creases from my forehead, stationed my eyebrows at listening level, and switched on the “how interesting” light in my eyes as…

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