Poodle

I take an enthusiastic Eitan for a power-walk this morning, 0705h. The girls sleep (Sonnet set her watch alarm for 6AM to run but didn't happen).

I go to Frenchs Barbershop in Walsenberg while the kids at the water slides. Inside I ask the barber for the usual "number three" which, Dear Reader, any fellow will tell you is the number-three blade on an electric shaver. It is generally understood that such ratings are the same throughout the world. When I go to The Turks in Richmond I get the same cut each time - number three - and every time it is exactly the same. Number three. I have been chopped in Mayfair - number three - same. Tony's in Berkeley - same. Rockefeller Centre - same. In Colorado, however, The Three equals a razor shave and boy do I get it. The kids instantly crack up after reading my expression ("is dad pissed?" I can almost hear them think). Sonnet soothes: "Don't worry honey. It will grow back." And then worried: "when is your next meeting?" I tell Eitan he is lucky as By God the boy needs a haircut. We giggle that I look like a "French poodle, dad." Great.