For a Limited Time Only

In Praise of My Barber

In Praise of My Barber My barber is a small, balding woman— more a girl, I guess— with a shy, impish smile, and a voice like Minnie Mouse. She’s good at what she does, and I tip her accordingly. Call me Mr. Moneybags, Mickey, Uncle Scrooge. Oh, sometimes I have to wait while some Huey, Dewey, and Louie take their turns squirming in her chair, their downy hair drifting down to the Xoor, all XuV and bother. And sometimes Goofy’s there, bending her cartoon ear with his gawrshes and guVaws. But I know that eventually she’ll only have eyes for me, as she massages my bony skull, tenderly, between her airy comb and scissors, and all will be calm and well. And that’s why I time my visits so precisely to coincide, not so much with hair growth as with whatever plot the latest Beagle Boys have hatched to make my life unpleasant. Safe in the frame of her shop, 69 I can trust the dialog balloon that hangs just over my head to instruct and entertain her with all I have to say as the world goes cockeyed oV on its inane and errant way, history blathering on like some inarticulate Donald Duck. And thus the storyline ends: friends, even Gladstone Gander couldn’t have more luck. 70 ...