I’m sorry Slick. I’m really sorry. You cut my hair from when I was 17 until about 22. These 5 years I cheated on you only once, yes, I moved to Chris’ chair one day when you weren’t there and well, I really liked the way he cut it. He was smoother than you were, he didn’t jab the buzzer into my lower neck portion like you sometimes have the tendency to do. Oh Slick, you were a cool dude, you know what I mean? But he just had this way about the way he cut my hair that made me feel better. After that day, I knew you weren’t the barber for me. But Chris was a principled man, he didn’t want to support my cheating ways. The way he looked at me after that one time I slipped up was unbearable. So, I came back to you and you were none the wiser as to my indiscretions.

I always enjoyed listening to you. You always made racist remarks about the Jews and about the blacks and even the Indian people, even though I’m Indian myself – it never made much sense – but you made me comfortable and tried your best to earn that $2 tip.

I just nodded my head in agreement because you were cutting my hair and frankly, the way you handled that razor always scared me a little. Do you have any mob ties? I hope you don’t – I was always afraid of what might happen if that razor slipped. So, I never corrected your politically incorrect ways. But you come from a time when men were men.

Towards the end, I got sloppy – I started coming in on days I knew you weren’t going to be around so I could get my haircut from the young and hip Russian whose small talk almost made me pass out with disgust. He kept on asking me about how many bitches I had boned the past weekend . . . because to him this was the height of cool.

After I couldn’t handle enough of the small talk – I moved on to the new barbershop. There, I got my haircuts faster though a bit more expensive and on time. There was no connection between any of the guys there and myself. They weren’t as racist as you and they were always eager to please. They all spoke Russian and my haircut would always be interrupted by a cell phone. Oh Slick, you would have never taken a phone call while cutting my hair. These guys were heartless.

Then, well, then what happened but I grew my hair out. I let it grow for 3 months and didn’t get it cut. And this time, when I needed a cut, I ended up at a salon. Not a barbershop, but a fancy salon. I felt myself a ninny, a metrosexual, a crazed man on the wrong path. I knew I was wrong. I knew I should have never made the cross over. But I did. I went in and all I saw were women, young, beautiful, nice smelling women. I was ushered over to a sink and my hair was shampooed with some fragrant suds and I was in heaven. The young woman’s hands on my head were inviting albeit a little too exciting. The cut was done without buzzers upon my request and I enjoyed it. But the results were so-so.

And today, a month after that experience, I went into Super Cuts. My hair was cut perfectly. This is what I had always wanted my hair to look like – and I’ve finally achieved it. But Slick, I miss you man, and I’m sorry. Every time I drive past your shop, I miss you and I want you to know that you are a good barber. I hope you have a nice retirement soon and can relax on the beach somewhere in Florida.

All my love.

**All names have been withheld to protect the gentle feelings of manly men.