The Haircut

Dear Diary:

It was a Friday evening in March, and I desperately needed a haircut. I booked an appointment at 6:30 p.m., the last slot available that day, at a nearby barbershop, and got it done.

The next morning was particularly windy, and I couldn’t find my winter hat. Running out the door, I grabbed a baseball cap and stuffed it in my jacket pocket.

Later that afternoon, as I was heading for the Bedford Avenue subway stop, the wind picked up, making for a brisk walk.

I pulled the baseball cap over my head, the hood of my sweatshirt over my ears and the hood of my jacket over them both. It looked foolish, but it was effective.

I got on the train and was still shivering when it passed under the East River and arrived at the First Avenue stop.

The doors opened, and a man got on. I recognized his face but couldn’t immediately place it.

I looked down, trying to jog my memory. Then I looked at him again, and it clicked: my barber from the day before.

At that moment, he turned and nodded to me and then glanced at my excessively covered head.

“It was that bad, huh?” he said.

— Philip McHugh