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As a plaintively dour postcard wedged into the frame of her mirror suggests, since it doesn't look like anywhere they expect strangers to come for fun, Kasha, the woman who cuts my hair, is from Glubczyce. I know this is neither a country nor a capital, and from her accent would guess something Romanian, but it turns out to be a small city in Poland.  

"What part of Poland?", I ask, setting myself up to show off.  

"South", she says, frowning at my right ear so intently that I begin wondering whether I left something in it.  

"So, near Slovakia?" Surely among patrons of a Concord Avenue hair salon I am unusual in knowing what countries border Poland to the south at all, never mind being able to correctly guess which one is closest to her hometown.  

"Yes", she agrees quickly, putting a crisp end to the conversation.  

When I look it up later I discover that Glubczyce is on the border with the Czech Republic, not Slovakia. It's certainly nearer to Slovakia than it is to, say, Mauritius, but I don't think that's what she meant.  

Mauritius is an island nation in the Indian Ocean east of Madagascar and south of the Seychelles. Its capital is Port Louis. I say this silently to myself while Kasha makes my hair look surprisingly good in peace. Being able to make someone's hair look surprisingly good is an international skill. Knowing the names for things you've never seen is sleep-timer magic for circus librarians.
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