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Carla Hitchens
Carla listened contentedly to the snick of scissors,
As pieces of blond hair fell to the salon floor like dead fish.
Her new patent-leather shoes hurt. And her skirt was too small.
But the plastic bubble-lights reminded Carla of Hollywood.
She wanted to feel Michael Kirk kiss her on Friday.
She closed her eyes, and her imagination rustled like a magazine.
Oh, the story and names, ecc. are completely made up.
