The smell of cheap hairspray and cigarette smoke hit me walking past that salon on 45th yesterday — instantly six years old again, standing on a milk crate sweeping hair off my dad's floor while he yelled at Mrs. Henderson about her perm rods. Mom would pick me up in that beat-up Ford Transit still smelling of diesel, french fries waiting in a paper bag on the passenger seat, and I'd fall asleep before we hit the bridge every single time. Fuck, I miss that truck.