“What are all those pictures on the wall for?” Lincoln asked as we sat on a wooden bench waiting for the next available stylist to cut his hair.
“Those are pictures of people with different hair styles”, I replied. “Do you see one you like?”
“They all look weird”, he said.
Lincoln sat close to me on the bench but not too close. His legs dangled off the edge. He scanned the walls looking at all the pictures of people with hair in various stages of disarray.
“How come the guys don’t wear shirts?” he asked.
I explained that he could look around until he found one he liked, and when the stylist asked how he’d like his hair cut, he could point to that picture.
He continued to scan the picture covered walls. I wondered what he was thinking given the models were at least three times his age.
It wasn’t long before Lincoln’s name was called.
He jumped off the bench and climbed into the black barber’s chair. A young women wrapped a black apron around his neck before tapping her foot to raise the chair.
Lincoln stared at himself in the mirror while the woman ran her fingers through his hair before asking, “How would you like your hair cut?”
He looked around the room one more time.
“Can you cut it like my dad’s?”
Good things happen when I keep my shirt on.