Chicago: the smell of burning hair in the hair dryer.
After our February respite of clear sidewalks, snow is falling outside like it’s making up for lost time, and the wind makes it look like smokestack currents from a snow-manufacturing plant.
I hear the foreman yelling, “More snow! We have to make more snow! We can’t keep up with the demand!” and his boss allowing him to go into overtime, to manufacture snow day and night, day and night, until Chicago’s inexhaustible appetite for snow is once again satiated.