For some reason the first thing this statement made me think of was the barber shop. Eastgate Barber Shop over off Franklin St.
Spent some time there back in the day. Hop in the chair, let the ol’ Wayne hack away for a bit while you tell him about your girlfriend, UNC sports, fishing, maybe your soccer game. Sit in fear as he shaved your neck with that super sharp, grande razor. Then about 20 minutes later he swings you around 180 degrees to look in the mirror…and boom. Bowl cut. Too short. Parted way too much. Nerdy looking. Something was never right. I remember walking out and rubbing my hands all through it, messing it up. Would always feel better after that. Enjoyed chatting with the barbers and listening to other guys in there yucking it up made you feel like you were older than you really were. It was cool.
Believe it or not, I don’t spend much time in those chairs any more. My DNA has evolved me into a barber myself, buzzing, cutting, clipping and shaving my own hair. Cheaper. Less surprises. But not the same experience. And now I’m going to be in a new chair due to my DNA (and just some shit luck). Certainly will be a new, and not so cool, experience.
It looks like I will be starting chemo late next week, or POSSIBLY the PD1 drug. Few more days of waiting on those biopsy results. There is a chair with my name on it reserved for Friday morning. So wheels are in motion. This cancer is in for a mean cut.