She then proceeded to spend the next half hour or so giving me a haircut with which I was really happy. And hardly talking to me the whole time. And I got an espresso, black, no sugar.

The only drag was staring at myself for three-quarters of an hour. By the end, I had convinced myself I resembled David Lynch’s brother Jo-Jo, the one whose fontanelle never entirely closed.

I paid the bill (way less than I had expected) gave her a tip and made an appointment for my next haircut. I left the place feeling like a movie star, and not a Mafia hit man (as someone at work had described me earlier that day, because I was wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, as if a real hit man would look like a hit man – a real professional would look like a substitute teacher, or a urologist – think about that the next time you have your prostate examined). Health insurers should pay for haircuts, they do way more for your self esteem than therapy usually does.

Today, after a shower, it of course looks way different, but I’m still happy.