Who does this? Within a couple hours of the news, I am in someone else's bed. I am trying not to think of my inattention; he's sweet, doesn't seem to mind, and is treating me well. Then today, after talking to Mom on the phone, I decide I must go to the barber. She had told me two days earlier, just in case, that I am not expected to come. But now I am thinking, just in case, I should look a bit less, um, I dunno, threatening? An expired I.D., getting on an airplane in this day and age, why not look a bit more presentable, and Mom would probably apprecite me not looking so shaggy. I instruct the barber what I want - shorter, but fuller in the mustache, chin. I tell him this two or three times, knowing full well I won't like what he does anyway. But it'll look better in a few days, right? And besides, it does grow back. Clip clip clip, then chair released downward for the shave. My mind wanders, I am not relaxed, these kids are noisy, why did i come after school hours? Radio isn't even on the corny, yet soothing station the barbers always used to play; Blondie-disco-hit, I think about how amazing all the aunts and uncles were when my Dad died. Hard to believe it was over ten years ago. All on my Mom's side of the family, Dad was an only child. Now, one of them is gone, at age 54. The 8th of nine kids, my Mom's little brother. She was sixteen when he was born. I am not sitting in a barber's chair crying.