Grooming salon for puppies, lion cubs and other reptiles

Volodya came out of the entrance, pulling down the sleeves of his sweater under his windbreaker. In the windbreaker in winter, as well as in St. Petersburg, it was, of course, a little cold, but the wind did not blow through. And his plans for today did not include spending a lot of time on the street. Fortunately, the curly black crown appeared on the horizon quickly and did not make him freeze for a long time. At five o'clock sharp. As agreed. In fact, the Poet was quite punctual, and often it was Chrysalis who was late much more often. Although, it would seem, a creative person is constantly somewhere not here and not with us and always hovers in the clouds, but somehow he managed to combine visiting his inner world with moving in the outside. When he reached Volodya, the Poet pulled off his hat with a light movement of his hand: — No, are you serious? Where are you going? To a Harlequin meeting or a poetry reading? But Volodya was really going to a poetry evening. To this day, he had never been to such events, as he had simply not been invited to them before. And since Volodya has not been invited to such events to this day, the Poet always went to them alone. And that's probably why I was so worried right now, because I wouldn't want to spoil my impression in narrow circles by bringing some homeless person to such an event. Well, that is, Chrysalis was not a bum, and the Poet did not consider him such, but at first glance that was the impression he made. — What's wrong? Volodya asked. — No, it's all right, but you won't go like that, — it's good that it was in case of any such force majeure that they agreed to meet two hours before the start. — Let's go to you, I'll make you at least something resembling a human being. Chrysalis, of course, expected something like this, he had long ago realized that the Poet was an aesthete in the highest sense of the word and, moreover, crazy on his head. He snorted in displeasure and trudged back to the entrance. Chrysalis was sitting on the side of the tub. — You know, have you tried combing them? "What is it?" the Poet asked, rummaging through his dark red hair. He shifted them from one side to the other, as if trying on which option would be less miserable. As a result, I stopped at the option where the hair is combed back. It looks stylish, strict and no longer looks like a red-haired Hitler. The last is the most important thing. I've already come to terms with the windbreaker, because if you take it off, then just in a sweater (well, trousers), Volodya looked quite passable (and probably without them, too). — Do you have any nail polish? — the Poet asked again, having finally decided this time what exactly he would need to polish, at the same moment he was smoothing Volodya's hair with his hand and probably thought something like: "Well, what kind of lion is this tiger!" By the way, of course, there was no varnish, but just walking a couple of times with an ordinary comb was enough.