Lourie has been cutting my hair for years, and Virginia has been washing my hair as long. Now Lourie also cuts Peter’s hair and trims his beard, against his grumbling protests, I might add. He argues, complains and pouts. He’s worse than a three-year-old getting his first haircut.
Virginia’s magic touch puts him in a good mood, and Lourie, who’s been in the biz for thirty-four years, puts up with his nonsense with her signature bubbly laugh. She jollies him along and is a perfect audience for his jokes, the old routine I’ve heard a million times.
After I sneak a photo of the event around the corner, I sink into a chair, totally relaxed, knowing he’s in good hands. I doze.
Peter comes out looking like his old self — younger and smiling. Lourie and her flashing scissors did their usual excellent job. Win, win!