“Ah, this must be the mop you were telling me about.” The barber joked as he shook Daddy Phil’s hand as if they were old friends.
He must have been in his fifties I would guess, with a marine style haircut and a mustache that was trimmed so straight that he must have used a ruler.
I gave Daddy Phil the meanest look I could muster and all he did was laugh it off.
The Barber then turned his attention to me, “I think to start,” he put a single finger to his lips in thought, “we had better wash your hair.”
I looked up to Daddy Phil for reassurance.
“He’s not going to bite.” He said to me.
“I’m more worried about having an ear snipped off.” I mumbled.