Cutting It Off

Okay, it took me ten minutes to even find the pocketknife because I forgot we used it to try to open a can of corn the other night. (Most of the cans of vegetables here have pop-and-peel-back tops so we never got a can opener.) It was in a drawer in the kitchen with the other pocket knives, a nail care kit, and a box of thread with a single needle. I'll let it grow out for a month or two and then let an Egyptian woman cut my hair for me.

The kitten I am watching for the next six days is also bored. He keeps attacking my fingers as I'm typing. I hope he really doesn't have rabies like the girls who left him with me (and my mother, by phone) assured me, because his last scratch definitely just broke the skin. When I put him in the hallway and close the door, he cries because he doesn't want to be alone. He just wants to bite me. If I die of rabies soon, my mother will be angry because I have hacked off bangs, and for that reason alone I hope I live.