Hair

It’s a good thing my father isn’t around to see me.  He’d be all “When are you getting a haircut?”, a line he’d repeat maybe twice before dropping the “when” and the question mark.  So, heaven—literally—knows what he’d say now.

 

The last time I waited this long for a haircut was over twenty years ago, when my barber suffered a heart attack.  He was out for close to four months.  I could’ve found someone else to go to, but real men don’t abandon their barbers.  Of course, it got a little dicey when we went over to visit my parents.  My father would shoot me a look that said, well, “When are you getting a haircut?”

 

Now, I can’t get one for the life of me.  I love my wife dearly, but not enough to hand her a pair of scissors and say, Cut Away!  Who knows what long-buried resentments could come out at the sight of my scalp?  Maybe I should try a man bun until the shelter-in-place order is lifted.  Then I can go visit family members at the cemetery and raise the dead with my bun.

 

That, or I can have my very own “Turn Back the Clock” promotion every day until further notice.  It’s the 1970s until further notice.  I could be Terry Forster, Goose Gossage, Bart Johnson, Steve Stone…

 

Somebody get me a barber.