Getting them all cut . . .
As the heat creeps up, I notice that I'm a little shaggier than usual and it's time for a haircut. I head over to the local hip, young barbershop that just opened up a few blocks away.
It's a throwback with it's greaseboard for your name, the TV permanently on ESPN in the corner, and nudie mags in the rack. Curse words and strong opinions fill the air during the hour long wait. It's a festive atmosphere and I may be the only person without hard toe shoes and a beard. I love it.
My turn comes and when asked what I'm looking for I say, "Clean it up. I trust you," and he sets to work. I notice the many, many gray hairs falling on the black drape protecting my clothes. We talk about the NBA Finals, my young barber's pre-barber days, and the weather in the breaks when he cleans the razor.
He turns me back to the face the mirror and it's short. "High and tight," my wife will say. I try to look pleased, "That's perfect. Thank you," I blurt, to prevent any more damage being done.
The family has fun with my new look. "You kind of look like a soccer player," says one as we watch the Euro Cup finals. "Whoa. That's short," says another.
I'm learning to live with it. I once heard that difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut is two weeks. I'll let you know if that's true.

Until then, every time I look in the mirror I jump back and think, who's that?
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