I am considering letting my hair grow long as a service to barbers everywhere. I apparently impart some sort of curse onto the men who cut my hair. The first barber I tried when I moved to DC was a kind old gentleman who ran a small shop in the basement of an office building. It was a throwback to an age when businessmen threw back a couple drinks on their lunch break and got hot shaves before a big meeting. The fact that it had actual dog-eared copies of Playboy in the magazine bin lent it an almost mythic quality. Unfortunately, the entire building closed for asbestos abatement only a few months later. Renovations spruced up the building's decor and increased tenants' rent, and the barber shop never reopened.

I started patronizing another barber shop in Cleveland Park, a long, narrow space with a row of chrome hydraulic chairs staffed by old men clipping hair at a furious pace. The magazine selection ran more to Field and Stream, but the gents still cut your sideburns with a bare straight razor held in warm, wrinkled hands. They retired and closed the shop for good about three haircuts later.

Finally I found another pleasant little place, a one-man shop in the country that still had 1950's posters on the wall displaying the range of haircuts available. I suppose this was so the less literate customers, or those taciturn God-fearing farmer types, could merely point to the style they wanted and not waste words on such distractions as one's appearance. I requested the "Butch," which I was told was making a real comeback these days. The barber was a friendly guy whose hydraulic chair sat under a complex arangement of pulleys and ropes. As he cut hair, he kept one arm in a sling that was suspended from the ceiling; the cord from it ran over to the side of the room, where a counterweight provided just enough lift so he wouldn't have to hold up that arm by himself. When I asked about it, he said he'd injured the arm and had trouble using it for the duration necessary for his trade. Susan and I later realized that we'd read an article about how this barber had been in a car accident several months earlier, in which his wife had perished.

I was completely happy with the new barber, who even had the requisite functioning barber pole whirling outside his shop, though more modern, Outside-quality magazines. But when I returned a month or so later, I found the storefront closed. I peered in through the window and saw only a few items of furniture pushed to the center of the room, wrapped in plastic. It was like peering into a museum exhibit that wasn't yet ready to open to the public.

Susan and I asked an elderly woman at a nearby business, and received the news: this barber had died. "Quite suddenly," said the woman. When we traced back the approximate date, it seemed that my haircut must have taken place on one of the very last days of his life.

As a result, my hair is now longer than it's been in a while. I just haven't felt up to destroying that man's last pieces of handiwork. Of course, my scalp has been undoing his craft for weeks, eroding the temporary perfection of his artistry, dissolving the integrity of his life's work. Sooner or later I will be forced to move on, for the sake of appearances.