The visit to the barber

I dreaded the barber when I was young. I hated to have scissors so close to my ears, the blades so close to my eyes. To prevent a haircut from being a complete ordeal for me, dad used to promise me sweets after each one, if I did not cry. I had to visit the barber once a month then - I had a lot of hair.

And now, the visit has reduced to once every two months. Sigh! I still dread going to the barber. What if she finds a "bald spot", what if she sees graying hair and tells me, what if she makes that sympathetic "cluck" sound when she sees my thinning hair? It is a terrifying thing.

It happened today - my barber was going on and on about her Peurto Rican home and how she missed her family there, when she suddenly stopped. She started examining my head minutely, and looked at me. My heart stopped - did she find something that I did not want to listen? And then out it came - "Hey! You have a brown tuft of hair", she said. I heaved a sigh or relief. It wasn't something that would break my heart. It was about a patch of brown hair I had. (I still need to figure out where THAT is).

After a 5 dollar tip, I returned home, wondering when the next terrifying barber visit would be...