((ignore the verbatim ramblings))
Every time I get my hair cut, my inner voice adopts a French accent. The numbers are in French, too, and if I'm not careful, my consonants start to disappear. The t's begin to fade and the k's move to the back of my mouth where they are warmer, thicker, cosied in fudge and caramel and balsamic vinegar. My lips purse around leaves of speech, soft leaves like African Violets rolled in straws. Twice now I reach to vocalise and instead bud, cotyledon of a new language.