I only have a haircut once a year. So if I live as long as Methuselah I have another 923 haircuts to go. My grandfather, who cut hair in the army in World War 2, was the first to cut my hair, making me look like a 4-year-old fugitive from a chain gang. The year before last I had a haircut in Innsbruck, last year in Vancouver, this year in Aix-en-Provence. I remember everyone who has ever cut my hair, and all the conversations had, and my changing face in all those mirrors. It is always a thoughtful time for me, thinking of everything that has happened since the last haircut and looking forward to the time till the next one. I am like some beast who, shedding its skin, has grown since the last shedding, and for a while thinks only about the growing.

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