I spent the weekend with Jo-Jo, my seven year-old soulmate, who, chattering in the backseat, her legs kicking the back of me, sees new things and loves them immediately.  ”Ohhhh!  SUPERCUTS!”  She screams and I say “Do you get your hair cut there?”

Jo-Jo has hair that dangles past her darling rump, and it’s hard to imagine she gets it cut anywhere, except her bangs, which, she tells me with the large lovely eyes of a horse, “my mother cuts with kitchen sheers.”

“I’ve never been to Supercuts,” she says.  ”I’ve just never seen it before.”

When the cat bites her she cries, confused by Kitty’s fluffy body, sweet face and harsh communication methods.  One moment Kitty is curled on Jo’s stomach, the next she is swatting at Jo-Jo’s fast moving hands.

“I wanted to make FRIENDS,” Jo wails, while the cat still watches like a huntress, her tail swishing, as Jo’s hands wipe at her tear-stained face.  The cat’s eyes are wide, the pupils black, ready to pounce.

“She looks so nice and soft!”  Jo tells me and I nod, cradling the disdainful cat, her foxy tail swinging in waspish annoyance.

“Unfortunately,” I tell her, “Things aren’t always what they seem.  Especially kitty cats.”

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