Many years ago in my hometown, I was talking with my barber, Chet. Chet was a talented guy. He could talk and cut hair well at the same time. When I was young, my father took me to another barber, Leroy. Leroy was also a politician and ran a banquet hall. He was a good barber, so long as he didn’t try to talk, too. But, if a call came in or if the customer got Leroy talking, why, anything could happen to one’s hair. And being a state representative, Leroy got a lot of phone calls. So, when I got old enough to drive and have my own money, I went to Chet rather than Leroy when I needed a haircut. It was safe to have a conversation with Chet.

I was maybe 20, and Chet was at least a generation older. His niece had gone to my high school and graduated a year or three before me. And trust me, she was pretty and sweet. Chet had a picture of her on the shelf of his salon stall. That picture was something to look at while I was there, certainly better than looking at her Uncle Chet: male, gray, and balding.