mortician beautician
Gordon was my father’s best friend growing up. The two of them would visit Gordon’s mother in the scary side of Pittsburgh at her hair salon and flip through the rolodex she provided for customers to choose coiffures from.
She moonlit at a funeral parlor several nights of the week, and the photos in the rolodex assured that you, too could get a ‘Mrs. David Bishop’ if you so fancied the look on the beiged and sewn lidded namesake.
