On a sweltering hot day last week, the only thing I could remove without causing offence was my fringe. So I walked into a barber and asked him for a simple trim. He refused, saying barbers are for men. I insisted, arguing that hair is hair regardless of gender. He reluctantly agreed, and the cut took a fraction of the time and cost far less than my usual salon visit.
A Familiar Reflection
I've had a short fringe before, for fashion, and it always reminded my late mother of medieval ballads. Now, with this micro-fringe, I look like my father. My ears appear to stick out, though they don't. My father had prominent ears, and people teased him mercilessly. I've unwittingly transformed into his spitting image.
The Lesson Learned
Never pressure a barber into cutting your fringe. It's like blackmailing someone into performing a root canal. Trust the professionals, or you might end up looking like your dad.
