LESS IS MORE A TRUE STORY

Richard was tall, dark and handsome. He was a friend of the family's, a frequent dinner guest at our table.

Once I became a liscenced hairdresser, he booked an appointment for a haircut. When I asked how he wanted his hair cut that first time, he said he was putting himself entirely in my hands, being that now I was a professional.

This type of opportunity is a rare happening in the hair cutting business, where the client usually arrives with a clear vision of what the end resuilts should look like. Yeilding happily to the green light, I began cutting, and in no time Richard's former mane was cropped down to an inch of its existence.

I handed him the mirror, and he inspected his haircut from every angle, running his free hand across his short hair. He looked like a new man. I personally thought he'd never looked so handsome, and was very pleased with my haircut.

A few months later, Richard booked another appointment for a haircut. Seated and draped, he asked in a most casual way, "Are you part Indian?"

Secretly flattered, I stole a glance at my pale reflection in the mirror. "You think I look like an Indian?" I asked incredulously.

"No, but you scalped me last time. You think you could leave it a little longer?" he said. I laughed good-naturedly, but inside I was hurt and embarrassed.

Though I may not look like one, I'll admit that sometimes I wish I was an Indian, because I've had the sudden urge to scalp a client or two. I always think of Richard when this mood comes over me, and manage to get a handle on myself before any harm is inflicted.