i found the pefect barber in the city, quick with the scissors,
king with the blow dryer, every eight weeks he trimmed my
hair for a miserly sixteen dollars. i enjoyed the simplicity of
his old-country shop, the lack of fancy flower arrangements,
the absence of farrah fawcett posters. one evening washing my
hair in the basin, he begged for my help in a delicate private
matter - he had a son who was nineteen years old and awfully
shy with the opposite sex and unlearned in the ways of love
and so perhaps an experienced woman like me could teach the
boy a few things. i glanced in the mirror, examined my hair,
eyebrows, earrings, looking for signs that could make the little
greek barber think i was some kind of mrs. robinson or worse,
goldie cocks. after that night i let other men in the city cut my
hair, they were all terribly gay and had no virgin sons, and
insisted on being called hair consultants and charged hundreds
of dollars for a simple trim, and a complimentary frappuccino
