I got my hair cut today. Randy is my barber. He is about my age. We talk about sports and local news. It is usually uneventful.
There was a young teenage boy in the next chair. I learned, from eavesdropping, that he is in 8th grade.
Personally, I don’t recall ever crying in the barber chair, or at all as an 8th grader, so I had zero empathy when that 8th grader had a hissy fit.
Apparently, his haircut was not turning out as he wanted. I could tell because he said that was not what he wanted, threw down the cloth thing they put around your shoulders to keep the hair clippings off your clothes, got up literally crying, and went outside, followed by his mother and the lady cutting his hair, who attempted to placate him, one of them bringing him water.
Randy and I shook our respective…
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