Sitting out on the patio in the old wobbly highchair, the metal cool against my bare back.  Thinking only, “Don’t move, don’t move.”  The buzz of the clippers the only sound I hear, except when my mom repeats the same command I whisper to myself.  “Don’t move or it will be ruined.”  Six years old, and this is how I got my haircut in those days.  As hard as I tried, I always moved, when a few hairs tickled my nose, or the head on the clippers suddenly loosened and clacked wildly next to my ear.  The result of that moment’s wiggle always visible.  I don’t think I ever got out of that chair without a nick or bald spot somewhere on my head.  “It will grow out,” my mother’s soothing reminder.