Poor Karl II

Karl was chanceless. Yes, in my eyes he was my friend. One that I could tell about my grades, the girls I queued, and my hopes for the future. For twelve dollars every other week I was a friend in a chair. A client, a job, a gig. My bi-weekly conversationalist immortalized my hair for the first four days, until it began to wilt and default back to raw form in which it was time to schedule another appointment to revive my hair. Karl was my friend, Karl was cool. Karl understood the need for a young black man to appear engaging.