So I went to my barber in the Pointe-Claire Village. My barber is a “she”, having bought the old village barber shop that has been around since likely the turn-of-the-century. She’s extremely good, BTW. I asked her some time ago why she had sold her high-end salon and bought a barber shop. She said that she preferred cutting men’s hair even though it was a lot less revenue (she charges $14 for a regular cut, and $16 for a scissors-only job) because men were far less demanding and just wanted to get a good cut and get the Hell out without too much chit-chat. Fifteen minutes, barabing-baraboom! And she cuts hair just like my old barber, who had the temerity to retire at age 90 leaving me stranded after 45 years, with quick confident strokes and a cool hand on the straight-edge razor.

But to my point. She was sick as a dog. Her nose was redder than Rudolf’s and she tried to speak very little in order to suppress her cough. “Geeez” I said to myself. “Here we go again!”. Grrrrrrr.

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