Cutting It Close

Among the four sons in the Madeo family, I was the only one to win the genetic lottery and keep my hair. I suppose I would trade it for my younger brother’s brains, but you play the cards you’re dealt. It’s not great hair, but it’s better than nothing.

Ever since I was little haircuts have made me uncomfortable. These days I manage to sit still, but on the inside I’m squirming and wincing like a five-year-old.

Years ago I lived on the other side of the river and found a barber shop that I liked. It was a dingy storefront place with a bunch of regular-guy barbers and stacks of hunting and car magazines.

The guy who always cut my hair was a quiet man who had a look of intense concentration on his face as he snipped and buzzed. It was the first place I’d ever been where they shave the back of your neck with a straight razor. He always did a great job.

Then one day I was driving up 9 & 20 and I spotted my barber walking on the side of the road having a very lively conversation –with himself.

I’ve had my eye on the paper all these years for a story of someone having their throat slashed by a Rensselaer County barber. Still hasn’t happened. Maybe I should have kept going there after all.

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