I’ve never paid much attention to my hair. In my youth, it was a dark brown. Then it became speckled gray, then all gray.
I don’t ever recall one person saying, “My Don, what great hair you have.”
Since the age of 70, I’ve noticed I’m losing some of it. I don’t think I’m going bald anytime soon, but my forehead has increased dramatically. This doesn’t bother me much. There’s enough other stuff going wacko with my body to keep me from worrying about hair loss.
I still needed a haircut about once every seven weeks, and I didn’t like it much. Then I met a hair stylist named Julie. At first, she seemed to enjoy fussing over my hair. She wanted to wash it even when I had shampooed my hair in the shower a day earlier.
I liked Julie. I just didn’t want to hang out with her for half an hour. So I made a deal: I’d give Julie a very nice tip if she could finish my cut in five minutes or less. For each minute beyond that time, I’d reduce her tip by 20 percent.
I haven’t sat in the barber chair for more than five minutes in over two years.
Nor has anyone begun saying, “My Don, what great hair you have.” That’s okay.
Lesson: Aging requires wise negotiations.