Charmaine snips away at my hair, combing, gathering, clipping the unruly ends. I can see, in the mirror, the coarse, shorter, curly white hairs on my head sticking out at odd angles from the wet mass of the sleeker dark ones. Another sign of age.
"You can buy a house," Charmaine continues, still cutting, "if you're willing to move out of the neighborhood."
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