One quarter, one dime PEPSI the glass bottle clinks into the black bin. Inside, Mr. John sweeps the strands into one fuzzy pile. Mom decorated with foil is perched with a magazine. Elvis is singing, "Fools Rush In" with static. Sitting on my feet in the chair stretching my head into the plastic bubble dryer above I peer through the foggy helmet at the lady in curlers opposite me. She clears her throat while tugging on her knee highs. I slurp on my last swallow of pepsi.