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Contrary to common belief, hair cannot get wet. I wash with my head bent forward
beneath the faucet, sweeping the flow of hair forward into the stream, abstracting the
nape to a line. The lines of my hair all singular. Collectively immersed in water, there
is a wetness, but still each hair, taken separate, is solid. Solids dissolve, do not let water
pass through them. It is the division between strands then, which is wet, and creates the
illusion that hair drench. Same with a shirt. It is the spaces between the threads I clean.

Mother on the phone:

Know my panic for t-shirts, she says.

This is a bad time, I say.

Small necks, she says.

Can I phone you back, I say.

You know how I’ve been searching, she says.

So hard to find, I say.

We’ve been wrong all along.

What, I say.

We just haven’t been right.

No way.

Lower necklines are better, she says.

I can’t wait to see it, I say.

I just decided to try it, she says.

How low.

Come over and see.

After all the years, I say.

Lower but not cleavage, she says.

The old shirt you gave me.

I wish you wouldn’t wear it.

There’s still a little extra button sewed on inside.

I love you.