I went for my father-of-the-bride
haircut yesterday morning. Ahead of me
was someone who looked like my father would if he were still alive, at
104. Very nice man, said he had nowhere
to go anyhow when the barber took me first since I had an appointment. He sat waiting with his back to the
flat-screen TV that hung on the wall behind him.
The TV was turned on to
the World Cup. Because I always try to
be polite (and really need a haircut that won’t embarrass my daughter on her
wedding day), I asked my barber how his team did. “Not so good,” he answered. Nick hails from Albania, and, from what he
said, they were put in a pool with the likes of Italy and Spain. Oh, well.
“And what about your team?” he asked.
I didn’t even pretend
to have one.
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