Every eight weeks (or-there-abouts) I make the drive to Salmon Arm so my friend Matt at the Salmon Arm Barbershop can cut my hair. I’ve never been all that excited about getting a haircut. My mother used to drag me to the barber who would wrap me in the chair so I would sit still. I remember how excited I was when, in 1966, the Beetles with their long hair came to the USA. However, two short years later I was drafted into the Army and had to endure the painful weekly haircut.
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