Never too late to go back home.

Home isn’t where I sleep.

Home is where I do my trade of 36 years. HOME is, and has always been, the Barber Shop.

There is a shop owner in town and we have been personal friends for 40+ years. I’ve worked for her on and off over the decades and we have always had a great relationship.

With all the turmoil and losses in my life as of late, I want familiarity. I want to do my job. I want the soothing that only comes from interacting with someone on a different level, a tactile level.

If you are a giver, you will understand.

My son in law gets his hair cut with the barber downtown when I am unavailable. I directed him there, just as she directs her clients to me when she is unavailable. We respect each other’s work and I helped her to open the shop she solely works out of now.

So, he tells me last week that he saw the barber in town and she told him to tell me that if I work for her, I can keep all my earnings as long as I keep the shop open for her in her absence. She’s getting too physically beat up by the trade to continue to stand for hours alone and frantically work to clear her busy shop of customers.

I gave it a lot of thought and I realized that this may be the last time in my life that I’m physically capable of doing the job that has always been my first love.

So, I rang up my barber friend this morning and I offered my services.

Her reply was “Can you come now? I have four people waiting!!”

It’s 10:00 a.m., Friday.

I just went back to work at 54 years old and I’m kind of afraid but I don’t know why because I’m about to be in one of the three places that fill my heart with joy.

One is the cottage.

One is the barbershop.

One is in Roger’s arms.

It’s too cold to swim and that fucker has a wife AND a girlfriend and a crippling, terminal drug habit.

Looks like I am left with just one option.

Time to dust off my tools and go home.









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