Thankful that I still have hair.

I'm gonna get another Sardinian haircut before I return to the states next week. Which means, it'll be very trim. Short. Making me look clean-cut. My barber speaks only Italian. And so I make my wishes known largely with sign language. Hand and arm gestures. The kind that Italians use frequently and with considerable animation. Yes, that's the language I've learned. Demonstrative Italian sign language. I could speak to the deaf. And make myself known. That's the advantage of living in Italy. No need to speak with one's mouth. My barber is an older fella. Maybe not as old as me. But nevertheless, old. Probably old enough to retire. But my guess is that many, many Italians can't afford to retire. They keep going on and on and on. That's my good fortune when it comes to haircuts. There's another barbar in the same shop. Younger. But I prefer the older guy. I walk by the shop almost daily. And when I see that he hasn't got a customer, I'll stroll in. And point to my head. And make scissor-like motions. And off we go. Very thankful that I still have abundant hair (albeit white) that needs to be cut. --Jim Broede