all things come to an end

-- even improvisational acts of rebellion.

If I have counted correctly, my last haircut was seven months ago.  In Salem.  When Darrel and I drove the Shiftless Escape up to Oregon.

That may be the longest I have gone without a haircut.  Even in law school when I would indulge my hirsute side by forgoing shaving and haircuts during finals.  I call it my not-so-Nazarite period.

Looking through some old photographs, it was obvious this late 20s version of Steve managed to avoid barbers even when finals were not pending.

On Monday, Darrel had an appointment with his "hairdresser,"  Debbie.  His term; not mine.  He asked if I wanted to be squeezed into her schedule.  My needs outweighed my apprehension.  But I needed to qualm my mother's fears that I was about to join a commune -- or vote Democrat.

And I need not have had any qualms -- knowing my brother.  Debbie works in a barber shop.  A barber shop that would have felt right at home in Mayberry.  Four chairs.  Four barbers.  Guys waiting for their hidden behind a newspaper or magazine lest anyne talk to them.  Haircuts topped off with a shoulder massage using an-old fashion hand-mounted vibrator.

The only tip of the hat to modernity was that three of the four barbers were (and are) women.  That did not keep the barber shop conversation from being almost as masculine as the banter I heard in Powers during the 50s.

Darrel told me Debbie, could cut hair with the best of them.  And he was correct.  I had almost forgotten how good a fresh haircut could feel.  Not to mention that my coiffed head will bring peace to our Thanksgiving table.

And if I want to try another bout of long hair lunacy, it will always grow back.

In one form or other.