Hair

It all began with a simple trip to the hairdresser’s. Five-year-old Zhenya sat, as usual, in the chair opposite the mirror, glanced at his reflection, then at the hairdresser—and he turned pale with horror. In front of him stood a real witch. Disgusting, злодійкувата, страшна стара жінка. Her razor-sharp scissors clattered. A stench of death rushed onto the child. But why doesn’t his grandmother, Elizaveta Petrovna—the one who brought the little one for a haircut—notice anything? Why did Zhenya’s father react to his son’s story with humor? Could it be that adults have already become so hardened and blind that they don’t sense the icy chill of the grave right one step away from them?