Already miffed by Rewalsar Lake, the sacred and allegedly beautiful mountaintop lake that turned out to be a brackish green monkey-guarded duckpond circumnavigable in eight minutes flat, our boys wondered how they could keep their spiral headed downward.
“I know!” announced Devon. “I’ll get my hair cut by an old Indian man I can’t communicate with in a damp dirty wooden cowshed!” “Good thinking!” agreed Steve.
The bad haircut was already long-trodden territory of Devon’s. Some years back he started finding rundown old-guy barber shops, asking for simply a “good old-fashioned man’s haircut” and leaving the rest to chance. But now he couldn’t even do that.
A few moments into the feverish snipping, the barber paused and, perhaps for having a shop opposite a Tibetan monastery, uttered the English words: “Like… monk!” Devon panicked; the last time he’d had a cut like that, it’d ruined his third-grade school portrait. “No, not like monk! More than monk, please. Longer than monk.” The barber nodded, then interpreted Devon’s inentions to mean he wished to look: “Like… Cop Dad!”
But no respectable State Trooper lets his stubble get as gross as Devon’s was, so he opted next for a classic Indian shave. The barber gladly gathered his implements — including a well-worn styptic block — wiped them on his shirt, and got to slicin’.
In the end Devon was out less than two bucks, his moustache was mostly intact, and he wouldn’t have to wash his hair for awhile. All in all, not a bad deal.
Steve, on the other hand, didn’t fare so well: he was going to have to look at Cop Dad every day for a long, long time.