I found a good barber. I fired the big barber, and the skinny barber too. I got tired of looking like Hitler. That's not a good look in any situation. I now have a refined older gentleman named Tony as my barber. Tony's been cutting hair since 1962. He's magic with the scissors. He cuts hair like Edward Scissor Hands cuts hedges. He's fast and precise. The scissors squeak in his hand they're moving so fast.
The only problem is, I like Tony, and in my attempt to gain his respect and impress him with my old school knowledge, I'll make a comment every once in a while about the music he's listening to.
Is that Tommy Dorsey?
No it's Glen Miller.
I can't seem to get it right.
The other day I went in for a haircut. It was the second time I'd been there. I said, is that Frank Sintatra? No, it's Lawrence Welk.
I've been way off. And I know the difference. It's almost like I'm being taught a lesson not to force things.
I'd like to be Tony's friend. He's such a kind old man. It breaks my heart how kind he is. He's told me stories about himself and his family and how they have dinner together every Sunday at six-thirty. He's a model of consistency; same job, same wife, and he appears to be content with his choices. I admire people like that. He's not chasing anything. He's letting it all come to him and working hard in the meantime. That's artistry in my mind. Just working hard.
