He asks me to trim his hair. I don’t know why, because Gina usually does it for him. “I’m not a hairdresser,” I tell him. “I don’t know how to cut hair.” “Do it anyway,” he says. “And don’t mess it up.” He’s obsessed with his appearance, always primping in the mirror. He asks me if this shirt goes with these pants, are these shoes okay, how does this outfit look? He has shoes and socks in red, white, and blue, like the Puerto Rican flag. He thinks they are stylish, but to me they’re just silly. Sometimes he wears eyeliner to make himself look like a cool rocker guy. He must have ten black
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