In the end, neither the story nor the haircut ended up like I expected it to. It all started quite fine though. I woke up early this morning to find the sun's rays filtering through the curtains. I knew it was time to cut it down. Oh, how I cherished and nourished it! They say that I got my thick curly hair from my mother. Somehow, it forms a frail bridge to my far away home and distant memories -- may be that's why I like to postpone my visits to the saloon, or is it just my vanity that stops me? Regardless, it had to go now, it was too long and bothersome for the summer.

So, I decided to walk down to the close-by saloon. They know me quite well there and always ask me why I didn't come the previous month. I fib and tell them that I was busy, all the while feeling my hair for the last few times. There were no other customers this morning, so I take the first seat. "What will it be sir?" enquired a soft but firm voice from behind. I habitually uttered "the usual please -- medium, not too short" and looked at the old man in the mirror. He introduced himself as Joe, the new barber at the saloon. He looked healthy for his age and lively with a twinkle in his eyes. He got his implements out and set about to do the honors.

How the mighty hair fell! The rings and curls, all jet black and lustrous, each leaving me a bit lighter on the head and heavier in my heart. As a diversion, I started enquiring about Joe. He was very open to conversation, while his hands were glibly chopping away my hair. "I'm originally from Sicily", he proudly announced before I could mistake his accent to be Brooklyn-esque. "I was born in Sicily in 1915 and lived there for twenty years before boarding the steamer to the States. My brothers, however, went the other way to Australia". He asked about me. I said I work for this telecommunications company. "Oh, that big company! my grandson works there. Do you know Mauricio?". I told him I didn't and that my company had some 150000 employees. Feeling bad about disappointing him, I divert the topic to Soccer -- "aren't the Italians such artistic players?" I exclaim. He dodges that cliched topic and tells me that he used to own my company's stock. Wonderful, now we found a popular topic! Then he says, "But I had to sell it for my wife's funeral". My heart sank, not as much for my now half-gone hair, as for his now-gone better-half.

Joe darts to another topic, just like his scissors fluttering by like a butterfly. "Have you ever been to Australia?", he asks.

I got lucky with this one, "Yes, I did. in fact, just last April!"

Joe is visibly happy that we found a favorite topic of his. "Did you visit Ayer's Rock?"

"Yup! It was such a spiritual experience to see this massive monolith in the middle of the wide desert!", I meant it, despite how hollow it sounded in the saloon.

"I visited the place in 1970 and climbed the rock. I was the oldest man in the group and didn't even hold on to the support chains!" , with one sharp cut Joe removes the long curl drooping down my forehead.

We reached a sudden dead end, or so I thought. For Joe, there was still more hair to cut, and the most important secret to reveal. So, he continued.

"When I was visiting Ayer's Rock, I stayed in this hotel in Alice Springs, a touristy town close-by. On the night before my visit to the Rock, the hotel concierge came to my room. He asked me if I could help with a little problem he was facing. There was this Italian lady guest at the hotel, who couldn't speak any English. He wanted me to translate between them. Always pleased to use my Italian, I agreed and we called up the lady. She told me in a voice on the verge of tears that her husband had to leave for Sydney on urgent business, and she was all alone for the next two days. All she wanted was to find out how to get to Ayer's Rock but nobody would understand her. I conveyed this to the concierge and his answer back to her. Now she knew how to get there, but that would be woefully insufficient. She probably would not be able to find a guide or her way back. My conscience did not let me ignore her silent plea. So, I, being a good Sicilian gentleman, offered to take her with me the next morning".

Joe stopped and asked if I was happy with my haircut. By now, I was more curious about how the story ends than my haircut. So, I ask him to shorten my hair some more and he continues with his scissors and fortunately the story as well.

"Well, next morning I went down to the lobby", he continued. "And, there she was, waiting, looking worried like a lamb lost in a wild forest. She was a middle aged woman, with long, wavy black hair, and dressed in Red as bright as the Australian desert sand. She looked at me and smiled with relief, like one does when one finds a friend in an alien land". "She was the prettiest lady in Alice Springs that day. And, her name was Maria" (he paused) "just like my mother who passed away decades ago in Sicily. Oh, how much she reminded me of my mother!".

And it was over.

Was I unhappy? Certainly unhappy about the haircut - it had gone on for too long and took away lot more hair than I wanted to part with. As for the story, it had an unexpected ending, but not an unhappy one. In a strange way, it was nostalgic, much like my hair was.

I'll still say, never let your barber tell a story during the haircut -- neither will have an ending that you expected.

Am I going to Joe's saloon again? - you bet!