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A Hamilton kid goes to the stylist

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There's this little thing that sticks up at the back of my head most mornings.

About a dozen hairs gang up during the night, sticking up like a bunch of tiny stray paintbrush bristles. I can hear them saying something like, "Let's not lie down in the morning! Everybody got it? Right!"

The rebellion isn't a bad thing though: it usually tells me it's time for a haircut. This is not a big deal. I mean when I'm at home, it's a 10-minute walk up to see Joe, who's like a kid in his nineties, though still the best barber in the town. To be fair, with me having only a hundred hairs left, he doesn't have a lot to do. Mostly we talk – him in Italian, me in English. We get along just fine.

Not so long ago, though, we (I mean me and the Gang of Twelve) had a problem.

I'm on a business trip; Joe is hundreds of miles away. I'm in a city without barbers, at least none I can find. I go for a walk around the hotel. No barbers. I take a ride downtown on the fancy Metro. No barbers. Finally, I ask the friendly-behind-the counter person who calls me Mr. David, for help.........

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