With beloved Bobbie the Barber on sick leave, each day I look more like broccoli, rather than a proper sharpened pencil.
Recently, after years of cutting my hair, Bobbie mentioned some of his old customers who might have known my father in the old days.
Might have? It turns out that Bobbie cut all the heads that were nearest and dearest to my father.
And, like any good barber, he knew them well. "There was never a closer group of men, with more genuine affection for each other, than this group of World War II veterans," he told me. "They were rare and devoted to each other."
"And they were so funny," says Bobbie. They had highly refined, expert senses of humor. One day, a passer-by caught a glimpse of Harry Hofheimer in Bobbie’s chair:
The passer-by said to Harry, "Hey, Willia—oh, sorry, I mistook you for an old friend of mine…. But, no, you couldn’t be him. He’s been dead for five years."
Harry responded, without missing a beat, "You’re right. I couldn’t be him. I’ve been dead for only three years."
Get well, Bobbie. And bring your hedge trimmers.