Ican go months, half a year, between haircuts, and Baron knows that when I call him at the last possible minute, it generally means I’m booked to do a gig or a personal appearance somewhere. It is then, and only then, that my scalp sees the light of day from beneath my baseball cap or riding helmet. The pony tail scrunchy comes off and my very fine hair hangs limp and lifeless as uncooked spaghetti.

But this past week I realized — again, in a blind panic — that despite being sent a heads up that my driver’s license was set to expire by the end of the month, I’d put it off. And off. And off. There would be no way Baron could squeeze me in and, besides, I’ve been pretty busy teaching and riding. This left but one option: I was going to have to trim my own bangs, which had grown to that obno

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