Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Last evening the conversation at the dinner table wandered around to the subject of haircuts.  I haven’t had one in something better than three months now and have definitely got somewhat shaggy.

We discussed when and how (and even if) our salon would open up again and, once it does, how long it might be before one could even get an appointment, especially with all the hoops Kommissar Northam is likely to make us jump through.

“Why don’t you just cut Dad’s hair, Mom?” asked Youngest Gel.

Mrs. R looked at me meditatively and said, “Actually, I kind of like it longer.  It covers up that bald spot on the top of his head.”


Youngest laughed uproariously.  I just goggled.

I know I’m thinning out on top, but I had believed that spot to be my little comb-over secret.  Apparently not.

UPDATE:  Just checked on FacePlant and I see the salon is actually opening up next Tuesday, and in the new digs to which it was about to move just before the lockdown hit.  Good for them!  I was genuinely worried about whether or not the business would survive.  (I’ve had the same gal cut my hair for something near 20 years now, so I take this personally.)

On the other hand, I see where according to Der Kommissar, under the current phase of re-opening salons and the like are required to keep (and presumably make available to Big Brother) visit logs and contact information for their clients.  Damn that.  I’ll wait until this nonsense has died down somewhat farther.