I am readying myself for another interview when the crowd bursts into the Capitol. I have to go get a haircut, with my phone held tensely in my lap under the barber cape, and wonder the whole time whether the Speaker of the House is having her head chopped off. The haircut itself is administered by a stylist in his fifties who believes in me in a way that no one ever has before: that I can carry off an early-nineties Fly Girl situation. When I step out of the salon and back into the stream of what is happening I have a feeling that I have possibly never had before: American.
