Look What Happened To Samson

I promised my employer I'd get my haircut once a month, something that I usually do two or three times a year. I can't remember how many months it's been since that promise, but a friend of mine (who actually does the cutting) says I really should get it done. She usually says that about the time I think it's just growing into a good length: 3" below my ears and just below collar length in the back. That's minimum acceptable for me. However, for sake of less static from the more staid people in my profession, I will allow it to be just below the ears and an inch above my collar.

I could have painted these ears blue twenty-five years ago, maybe longer, and nobody would be the wiser.

Up until recently, I had paid for a haircut only twice since about 1961. That's not a bad record for a cheap New England Yankee. Either I did it myself, had friends who cut hair, or traded services with the local barber when I lived near his place of business in Rockport, Massachusetts. The first guy turned out to be a bookie and I didn't tip him, as he had received enough "tips" while cutting my hair ("just a moment, sir," numerous times as people came to the front door, had brief conversations, and moved on).

Oddly enough, I like getting haircuts. I like being fussed over, having clothes adjusted, having people working on me. I just don't like the result: shorter hair.

Look what happened to Samson: when he got one, he lost all his strength.