Hair

I’m still over at my parent’s house in the woodlands of PA. I’m stuffy, tired, sleep-deprived, and still bloated from Thanksgiving. Yesterday morning, cold and rainy, my stepfather took me to his barber’s down in town. Town is a 30 minute drive from their house.

For the past year my wife has been cutting my hair. I like it, but I don’t think she has confidence in herself. Or maybe she finds it too tedious. Anyway, it’s saved us over $300 by my reckoning. That’s some great penny-pinching.

Before that I had a succession of chicks cut my hair. The last time a man touched my hair was probably Mickey the Barber, an old Italian gentleman who buzz-cut me when I was six or seven. So it was with a little trepidation that I sat in the chair desperately waiting to get my hippie hairdo shorn off.

Also, it may have been a tactical error to walk into the barbershop wearing a Giants cap. This is Eagles turf. As I walked through the door, every man in the shop turned and looked me over. Good thing Philly spanked the Giants last week, or I might have left the barber chair looking like Cletus the Escaped Psychiatric Ward practiced his shearing on half my head.

I now have the shortest haircut I’ve ever had in at least thirty years. I’m happy with it.

So what do I look like now?

All right. See this guy?





Take the length, softness, and grain of his fur, and put it on this guy’s head:

And that’s me. That’s LE, Recovering Hopper, Unemployed Bookkeeper to the Stars, Unpublished Author of Philosophic-Theologic-Scienterrific Fiction novels.