Despite being told that my hair was part of the reason I look like Phillip Seymour Hoffman, it had to be tamed. JaJo’s Barbershop is on Barrack’s Row, about a mile from my last apartment. I’ve stuck with them because it’s the best haircut in the Southeast quadrant, and everybody knows it. JaJo’s is first-come-first-served, meaning there is a lot of competition for a chair, meaning you’d better get there when it opens at nine on Saturdays.

On haircut day, my routine is to pack up my art supplies and haul them a good five-minute walk to the barber, to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, where I have a breakfast sandwich and an iced coffee—regardless of the temperature—and draw until it’s time to go. After the cut, I used to walk to the boutique dispensary, but I don’t do that anymore, so I usually just get bored and go home within an hour.

This Saturday, I emerge from the Metro and begin my coffee house, which takes me past the other three cafes between the station myself and the. After crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, I make a decision that’s going to change the trajectory of my entire day: I decide to do something different.

Instead of walking two blocks to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, I stop at the first one I see. Instead of sitting inside in a quiet corner to monitor the comings and goings of the clientele, I deposit myself on the patio. Instead of an iced coffee, I order English breakfast tea. Instead of a breakfast sandwich, I order something I need a fork to eat. Instead of wolfing the food down and opening up my sketchbook, I savor it and edit a chapter of one of my W.I.P. novels.

These changes are small but invigorating.

Early September is still summer, and it does get hot in the afternoons. Mornings this month, however, have been gorgeous. JaJo’s is a shorter walk, so I hover just a little while longer, watching Eastern Market set up as early birds meander into my cafe or the one next door (incredibly, they both do great business). It’s here I see my first natural ginger. She won’t be the last

When I get to JaJo’s, I’m directed to one chair of nine, this one belonging to Michael. Within ten minutes, they’re all full, with a long line. Jajo’s is a Vietnamese business, and all barbers (but one) share that nationality. My barber, an older guy, speaks only hairdresser, which is great because I’m not one for hairdressing small talk. Michael tackles my mop with professional efficiency, following with my favorite part, the hot towel and shoulder massage. This time, however, Michael has an electronic device that is as aggressive as it is exhilarating. He even applies it to the top of my head, and I literally start to slide out of the chair. After a focused hair-dry, he exposes me to my perfect new do, which is as good as it’s going to look for the next six weeks.

My other errand of the day is the art store, but it doesn’t open until eleven. It’s currently nine thirty. My plan is to walk ten blocks to the Roost, to kill time with a slice of New York-style pizza some light doodling. However, I always go there. Things are different today. Unable to justify lunch until eleven, I end up at the 7th Street Hill Cafe anyway. This time I don’t order an iced coffee. I order a pineapple-mango smoothie. I don’t sit on my usual couch, but at a table outside, with the perfect view of the busiest traffic path in Eastern Market.

Eastern Market is a celebration of food, artistry, and secondhand merchandise. It stretches from the cafe from this morning to the cafe where I sit, branching off at key intersections. I’m able to see most shoppers come and go, and it’s hard to focus on my art. Among the crowd are four additional gingers, which seems like a lot. Maybe they’re planning something.

When it’s time for lunch, I can sit down at the Mexican-El Salvadorian place next door, or I can see what the vendors down South Carolina Avenue have to offer. My options are wide open, and the safe bet is an empanadaa with a lemonade. Not today. Today I’m going to try jerk-chicken tacos with pineapple-orange-ginger juice. I’ve never had jerk chicken before. I’ve never had flavor like this before. I enjoy it with a gorgeous mural over my shoulder.

Aside from JaJo’s, I like to come down here for Eastern Market, but I always cruise through it at top speed. This time I stick my head in a lot of stalls stalls, from microgreens to delicate, wooden hummingbird sculptures. There are five painters and two photographers, as well as a scarf store, two potters, endless jewelry, vintage clothing, framed stamps, vinyl albums, and candles.

I stop at a secondhand clothier and see they’re selling soccer jerseys. I loved them in my thirties, but I stopped fitting into my collection when I hit my forties. Today was the day. After stuffing that into my backpack, I think, “What the hell, I’ll get a candle.”

Down the way, after I pass another ginger, a man is selling books, all from one publisher. This doesn’t look like a book crowd. When I stop and discuss it with him, he tells me his secret: selling books at a fair that doesn’t typically go for books is a real moneymaker. I praise his cover artists, which turns into a conversation about racism in the arts. This is a very uncomfortable topic, not because I don’t know how easy white men have it, but because acknowledging that sounds like I’m bragging, which I am not. I ask him for a help picking out a novel for my friend’s kid, and he recommends a really weird one. I think they’ll like it.

Returning to my neighborhood, I take the long way home to poke my head into the cafe that recently opened up a healthy stroll from my apartment. I pick a different iced tea refresher than normal and sit at a table outside to finish a project. Someone in an apartment above my head brutally beats a rug with a broom, causing me to flee, but I had finished my refresher, so I only had to shake the rug dandruff out of my new hair.

When I arrive home and sit on my bed to remove my shoes, Oscar joins me, which he’s never done before. I’m about to watch a movie until I go to sleep, but he shows up near my head to get pets for several minutes straight. I guess someone else is having a different kind of day.