“Did you just wake up?” asked Ralph from behind the counter as he poured out my breakfast coffee.

“No.”

“Something looks different. Did you gain a lot of weight?”

“No, thank you. It’s just a new haircut.”

“You paid for that?”

“Yes, I did. And unlike you, I had to pay full price for having so much hair. You must get, oh what, a 75-percent discount?”

I shouldn’t have said that. For the next two weeks, I will get runny eggs and day-old coffee. Ralph’s service will be slower than usual, there will be no refills and it’ll take forever to get the check. But Ralph knows I’ve been trying to find a new barber ever since Charlie went to Florida after he developed carpal tunnel syndrome two years ago.

“From the repetitive motion of giving every one the exact same haircut for 30 years,” Sue contributed.

“He didn’t give everyone the same haircut. He was an artist.”

“Yeah. So was the guy who painted the dogs sitting around the table playing poker.”

Since Charlie’s been gone, I’ve been to every place in town, and no one seems to get my hair right.

Tone’s House of Hair (formerly Tony’s House of Hair) in the mall won’t take appointments. So each time I go, someone new cuts my hair.