My daughter Emma was 18, and she was a mess. I was worried that she wouldn’t focus on her studies when she went off to university. Mary told me to bring her to the barber. When I mentioned this idea to the barber, he offered to sort her out for me. So, the next day, I took her to the train station.
When I pulled off my wig, she gasped, never having seen me bald before.
“I’ve been shaving my head for about a year,” I said, “and I think that it would be a good idea for you to do so as well.”
When she protested, citing all the money that she just spent bleaching her shoulder length hair a bright platinum. I slapped her. Then the barber sat her down and caped her.
“Bleach is no good for hair,” he said, carving a path down the middle of her hair with his clippers.
Once the floor was covered in her hair, he gave her a hot lather shave. Looking at herself in the mirror, she wept, saying that she looked like an egg. My little bald egg, I thought fondly. I kissed her forehead and told that, as long as she lived under my roof, she follow my rules, including keeping her hand shaved until I told her otherwise. Then I told her to sweep up her mess as I paid the barber.