The first dog of Sorrento was in a restaurant, not unusual in Italy, where you might see a dog anywhere.
But the day before, there was another dog. A prologue.
That day, I got a haircut in Naples in a three-chair salon near the archaeological museum. They speak some English the internet had told me. A gray-bearded fellow in a black turtleneck with that mandatory Italian-man-knit-cap on his head greeted me with: “You wanna piece a pizza?” So, yes, some English.
After a young woman washed my hair, I was turned over to the man in the knit cap. He studied the picture I’d pulled up on my phone, studied my head, and got to work. In ten minutes of flipping, clipping and snipping, he gave me one of the best haircuts I’ve ever had. Together, we faced the mirror. He motioned questioningly, got my approval and nodded his. A chihuahua had been scampering around the shop the whole time. He scooped up the dog, went outside, and leaned against a wall near the door. Cradling the dog, he contemplated Naples traffic and smoked a cigarette.
