Reflections

My appointment with 29 unfolded as an exercise in paranoid interpretation. The hairdresser was a figure who defied easy categorization, originally male, now presenting as female, her enhanced physique matched by an animated personality that typically filled the small salon with a therapeutic, distracting chatter. Today, however, every word seemed laden with coded significance.

“How are you doing, darling?” she asked, draping the cutting cape around my shoulders with a flourish.

“In a transition state,” I replied, the honesty feeling both necessary and dangerous.

Her response came too quickly, its precision a blade. “Well, at some point the transition has to finish, doesn’t it?”

It felt less like an observation and more like a directive. Transition to what? Finish how? The phrasing implied a knowledge of my processes I hadn’t consented to share.

As her scissors worked, shearing my hair shorter than I’d intended, her monologue continued, a stream of seemingly casual commentary. “The village business climate is so uncertain these days. Hard to know which direction things will take.”

The double meaning felt unmistakably intentional. What business? What direction? Was she referring to the quaint commerce of the square, or the shadow economy I was beginning to understand operated just beneath its surface?

The most unsettling moment arrived during payment. A woman seated in the corner, someone I hadn’t noticed entering—spoke without preamble. “What’s your professional opinion about her transition?”

29 paused, scissors poised in her hand. Her eyes found mine in the mirror, holding my gaze for a long, evaluative moment. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “Hard to predict how these things will resolve.”

I paid with my card and left quickly, the newly exposed nape of my neck feeling less like a style and more like a brand.

“Greet, pay, and you leave.” The refrain beat in time with my footsteps.

Driven by this new compulsion for closure, I went directly to settle another outstanding debt, a bar where Handsome Man and I had once fled without paying. The memory was a flush of embarrassment: too much wine, money left on the table that likely didn’t cover our bill, our escape into the summer night like reckless teenagers.

“I have to pay a bill left pending,” I told the bartender, handing over my card. “Fifteen,” I added, the amount a secret shame.

He accepted it without question, the transaction wiping the slate clean.

At 14’s delicatessen, I presented my card to settle the final debt on my mental list. But he refused with unusual firmness, a silent refusal that felt heavier than any payment.

Returning home, ready to believe I had cleared all my dues and could leave, I texted Handsome Man: “I paid all my bills.”

His response was immediate and cryptic: “Happy for you. They are criminals and you are corrupted.”

The message landed like a shard of ice. Who are "they"? What corruption? Was this a warning from an ally about the network encircling me, or an accusation from an enemy designed to shatter my already fragile grasp on reality? The code was unbreakable, its meaning shifting with every interpretation.

This was the core of my new, agonizing awareness: the utter impossibility of distinguishing the genuine from the performed. Every interaction was a palimpsest, layered with potential truths and deceptions.

13’s philosophical musings—were they intellectual companionship or a method of information extraction? 14’s avuncular warmth, protective instinct or predatory grooming? 23’s therapeutic conversations—healing support or psychological evaluation? 29’s gossip—idle chatter or status reporting?

Even my own responses had become performances, a careful pantomime of normality played for an unseen audience.

I was trapped in a hall of mirrors where every reflection might be true or a deliberate distortion. The only certainty was the absence of certainty. The village that had once been a sanctuary was now an elaborate stage, and I was the only player who didn’t know her lines, performing in a drama whose plot remained a terrifying mystery.