It's an old-fashioned day today. Breakfast at George's, my first haircut of the year at a little hole-in-the-wall place just off Lincoln a few blocks down. Michael's it's called. Max told me about it. It's where he goes, and when it comes to a trim, him and I are very much of the same cloth. A cheap cloth, $12 a pop. None of this $40 nonsense. Hell, I haven't paid cash for a haircut in the last five years, just rolled spliffs to my girl Marley. We'd both smoke it before and then she'd go to town. For five years that's how it's been. But times are changing,
