I started cutting Paul’s hair when we were so poor that the money we saved could go toward groceries (like real milk instead of powdered milk, or orange juice instead of Tang.) Those were also the days when Paul changed the oil in the car himself, and we regularly put in a gallon or two of gas at a time, because we didn’t have money for more.
Paul likes the way I cut his hair. I did it for more than 30 years. Then I went on strike a few years ago and refused to do it, and he found a really cheap barber downtown. The strange thing is, that the real barber went to school to learn how to cut hair, and he did a really horrible job! This fits into my theory, that in general, things turn out better if you do them yourself (like painting, tiling, etc. but not brain surgery, of course). Every time Paul would return from the barber I was so annoyed with how bad his hair looked–this guy liked to shave him from the back of his neck to halfway up his head. It just looked SO BAD. So being the nice person that I am, I finally relented and went back to cutting it myself, at least until the barber downtown dies (which shouldn’t be long–he’s ancient) and then Paul can try again with someone else.
This photo is actually very scary because he looks so much like his dad. Not that I don’t like his dad. I’m just not married to him–or am I?