Wednesday, 29 January 2003 | Tags and holes

My friend Richard was visiting—we were meeting for brunch—and he had just hung his jacket and scarf on the coat rack next to my head. Brunch (in which I hardly ever participate) was at a little Dutch place near NYU that has the queen's face tiled on the back wall and serves fantastic apple "pancakes" that are much more like crêpes than pancakes. We sat by the window (away from the queen, which meant she was distinguishable, and not just a random splatter of blue and white tiles), and we talked to our very tall Dutch waiter who complained that people from the street were always wandering into the restaurant's cellar, which opens in the sidewalk like a fall-out shelter.

Anyway, I'd noticed the tag on Richard's scarf, since it was hanging by my head and the tag was turned outward, advertising itself in its smug, scratchy way. I told him how I increasingly hate tags and labels, regardless of what they say, and how I often cut them out of my clothes (and accidentally cut holes into my clothes) with an incredibly dull, clumsy pair of scissors.

So today, in my recently repaired mailbox, I received a small yellow and red matchbox with my name and address printed in tiny letters on the back, the postage wrapped around three sides. I punched through the tape with a fork, and inside I found a tool specifically designed for removing tags, a note which read "Lisa, your life should be free of both tags and holes," and the large, scratchy tag that had been pulled off Richard's scarf.