As a long-time, shining example of the ravages of late-term testosterone poisoning, the prospect of my first "real" haircut in more than a quarter century had me as unsettled as a virgin at a prison rodeo.
Some pointed and maybe just-a-bit acerbic back and forth twixt me and my long time 'barbette' led to the brisk (and thus mutual) decision that I should take my "pineapple that came out of the de-thorner tub 3 turns too early" to someone who understands that "It's not how much hair one has, it's how those hairs are displayed."
In my case, each individual Follicule Blossom must be arranged and displayed in a fashion denoting its specific, individual, (and becoming unique) triumph over genetics.
So I got sent down the street to Gentleman Jim's. That story, if/when I gather the strength, to follow.
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