Catacombs
by
In a place where the dead are never really gone, a hairdresser carries out his complicated profession on the deceased.
Because just as the dead have to wear their specialized robes, flowing in some places and wrapped tight in others, their hair must be styled in the distinctive styles of the deceased. It takes cutting just here, lengthening exactly there. Tinting and glazing to catch the light that scatters and wavers down through the water. Patiently weaving dozens of little tangle-wreaths in the places determined by the exacting calculations of the mortuary palm-readers and the detailed postgnostications of the forensic astrologers.
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