At Sixty-eighth Street I get off and find a barbershop.
"Butch cut," I tell the guy.
"That's right. I'll trim you nice and neat. Get rid of all this stuff."
And while he chatters on like an idiot, I have to watch three months' work go snip, snip on the floor.
Then I have to pay for it.
At home I get the same routine.
Pop looks at my Ivy-League disguise and says, "Why, you may look positively human some day!"
Two days later I find out I could've kept my hair.
Town and Village has a new story: "Nab Cellar Thief Returning Loot. 'Just A Bet,' He Says."
The story is pretty interesting.