Road Rage

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When I was a child, my father moved our family from Canton, NC to Dallas, NC. My dad hated the cold weather, but he was going to miss one thing—his barber. My dad swore up and down this barber was the only person alive who could fix his hair right.

My dad also worked third shift. When my dad would come home from work and brew a thermos of coffee at 6 in the morning, I knew two things: there was nowhere to hide, and we were making the 300-mile trip to get a haircut. When my dad drives, he requires absolute silence and he chain smokes with the windows up. 300 miles doesn’t seem like a long drive but you try holding your breath that long. He wouldn’t even let us crack a window.

One time when we went, the barber made his first mistake ever and cut my dad’s hair too short. My dad went Dawson’s Creek! He pitched a fit and told that man he would never touch my dad’s hair again. I felt sorry for the barber, but deep in my heart I was so glad. Apparently, the barber didn’t know that a chain-smoking, sleep deprived, oxygen deprived, hopped up on caffeine individual could come undone so quickly. True to his word, we never went back.

Ever since that day, my dad wears a hat!


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