It’s lights out in the hair-care isle as storefront explodes in stream of people, supermarket gone dark as legion leaves electric and staff playing catch-up to double doors off hinges, auxiliary fluorescence coming on to entrance of shattered glass and a quantity of movement that is very loud and volatile and stressful and is trampling the pilings of discounted charcoal lined in prime position for the end of season BBQ sale, black soot of “Your Garden Or Mine” now trailed in pattern of stampede. You’ve instinctively reached for the hand of your partner and Denny’s doing all the things and all the words of a calm officer of control, total no bother as they pull frizz-ease from shelf and scan backs of packs for ratio of ingredients ‘Jojoba? No jojoba. 10% jojoba. I need at least 50’. The manic push past to electronics and baby formula, ripping razor multipacks from hooks and taking stock of products later down their lists, we’ll be back they say, along with look suggesting Argon oil is better. Denny takes the advice, along with four/five/six bottles into basket. ‘What? It’s good to stock up.’ Held gaze, both smile. ‘What else do we need?’ The list extends and on the evening news you watch your casual stroll to car, light and in love aired before live streamed dairy section, angry mom in protest of swiped French cheese falling from chiller cabinets to carts and prime time heart string material of old checkout clerk down on knees, wincing at the crouch, wad of torn cardboard scooping smashed sauce into plastic bin with white liner, smeared by the presence of it.