hair gangsters

on the meandering wandermanstrasse that winds down the hills like a frozen river, ruined nineteenth century buildings crumble a millimeter separate from a wealthy, respectable home. these buildings jam together with no alleys, and no parking lots. on one sharp curve, the german red cross cut back the old street to make a parking lot for ambulances beside a first aid station.

i, the wandering man of the street, steal glimpses into the windows. everything karl marx hated was inside these homes. this is the top of the economy, on this ancient, meandering road.

then, there are the hair gangsters.

a shop window, spills euro-techno out from a corner between travel agencies and banks. painted into the glass in bright purple, a very assertive little cartoon man looks downward at his hand in an explosion of purple hair.

in his hand, he's holding an electric razor. the purple hair comes from some defeated little head, shoved forward beneath the assault of the hair gangster.

imagine, a street so bizarre that the only street gang are a group of hair stylists. the only graffiti are the band names plastered all over the stylists' cars. and the wealthy men and women with their wealthy sons and daughters stroll blissfully into the care of the gang.

make me look like a hair gangster.