Went to the barber for my semi-annual. He laughed when I told him I'd misplaced my ears and could he help me find them. He did. It's going to be a very long time before they're hidden again.
When I told him how short I wanted my hair, he said, "You want a 'Princeton'?" Well, I don't know. Describe it for me. He did. The results were a lot more severe than the description would lead one to believe.
It may not have been his fault. We were all distracted by the shop's owner, a full-bore Kool-Aid-chugging Tea Partier, who was ranting to his customer about not being willing to pay taxes even for police or fire services. If his house caught fire he'd let it burn down before paying for the fire department. Let it burn and rebuild. That's why he had insurance.
(It apparently hadn't occurred to him that his insurance company requires affirmative action on his part to limit his/their losses. They wouldn't pay a dime if they suspected he just stood around watching. In their eyes, that's only one step away from arson itself.)
Turns out both his customer and my barber were retired firemen.
My barber assures me that my part will reappear in a week or two and I should need the comb again in about a month, maybe a little more.
Still no idea why they call it a "Princeton."
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