Sorry for your wait, says the hairdresser, sweeping hair into a dustpan. I am prepared to say sorry, he continues, because when I am behind ten minutes for you, it means I have been behind ten minutes for everyone. So I have been saying sorry all afternoon.

He clips my hair and tells me about scissors. Those, he says, pointing to a pair, are one thousand dollar scissors. They are expensive but you have them for five or six years and you make money with them. The best scissors, he says, come from the United States and Germany. Italy, they have famous scissors too but not all brands. China is starting to make good scissors.

These scissors my father sent me from Iran. They were made in Japan. They don't have these here but Europe is full of these scissors. They are not the most expensive scissors but I like to use them for men's hair. Men like the sound they make. He snips the scissors rapidly to demonstrate and they make a quick, sharp, staccato sound, like a typewriter at full speed. Not like these, he says, picking up a purple-handled pair. These are Canadian, they are cheaper scissors, seventy dollars. He works the scissors and the sound is dull and shapeless.

These scissors my father sent, he says, have broken three times and I always fix them. He shows me the handle, its translucent plastic fractured and melted in several places. I will always have these scissors.

The usual, he says. Student, or not a student. I am not a student right now, I say. Sixteen-fifty. The change jangles into my hand. Salut, have a nice weekend.

Montreal is full of puddles, yellow and swelling with sunlight. There is a strong wind, and I feel it through my hair. A car passes, barrelling up Guy, windows rolled down. A dog sticks its head out the back window, black eyes wide, face full of fast air, and I think, I know how that feels.