Here was hair

balding head

Time was when my barber would finish with the draping and, before picking up the comb and scissors, ask “short or just a little trim”? Of late, he just sighs and starts. I try voicing my preference in answer to his unasked question but his smirk robs me of speech.

My son offered to drop me to my meeting on his new motorcycle. That would mess up my hair, I told him. “Good one, dad,” he said. He doesn’t think highly of his father’s senses, including that of humor, so I must have let slip a real good one. Not that I got the joke.

I have been asking the wife to get me a new hair brush. This one is all worn out and hurts when I run it over my hair. She brushes aside my request every time. This morning I forced her to look me in the eye and I asked her again. “It is not the brush, dear” she said. Then her eyes left mine and wandered up. I always fancied she looked up to me, but I didn’t particularly fancy the way she was looking up at that moment.

My friend at the library has been recommending one horror story after another. When I tell him I have finished almost all the good ones, he recommends one new title after another. All are hair-raising, he justifies.

I have been trying to learn low-light photography. I was told to avoid every kind of additional lighting. What if it is so dark that you can barely see the subject, I asked. Can we use some sort of reflector or something? My instructor thought for a minute, smiled at me encouragingly and said, “Just use your head”. He always had great respect for my intelligence.

Absence does make the heart grow fonder. Mine positively purrs when I go through the motions of combing my hair.

 

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