It was spring and I came home from school with a notice that class pictures were about to be taken in school at the end of the week. This, normally, would not have been such a big deal but it was short notice and I needed a haircut before I was to be immortalized in an infamous school portrait. For another reason, this would not have been such a big deal because I lived in a family full of hairdressers and barbers. Out of my 11 aunts and uncles, 5 of them owned clippers and one of the family events on a Sunday night every month or so was a “clip in” in my grandmother’s kitchen, with my uncle doing all boys. I was going on 9 years old and secretly longed for a chance to get a real haircut, in a real barbershop like my Dad, without an audience of giggling cousins. It just so happened that the stars were in line and my Mom forgot about the picture date until the day before the big shoot and it was crunch time. It didn’t make much difference to me whether I was trimmed for the picture, b