A memory from my childhood that has always stuck with me: one day when I was around JP’s age–nearly six–I went with my father to his barber shop near Wall Street. When he was in the chair having a cut I sat in the front area, perusing the selection of magazines, which ranged from sporting to politics to porn.

I found and find this strange. I also remember asking my father about why the magazines were there (not what they were: I was a perv even then) and not really getting a satisfactory answer, other than men like to look at naked chicks while they wait to get a shave and a haircut, two bits, please. I can’t imagine the magazines were there for titillation purposes, as a barber shop may very well be the least arousing spot on earth after the proctologist’s office.

And yet, there they were–and are. I ducked out of my office today on my lunch break and went to a nearby barber shop to get a trim at an old man’s barber shop–the cut-style posters on the wall were circa 1981; the barbers, circa 1951, and Greek, for some reason–and as I sat and waited my turn, I idly flipped through the pages of Time (boring), and People (vapid), and yes, Playboy, which in its own  odd way was nostalgic, and not just because of the glamor studio lighting on the nude shots.

It was the whole thing: nudie magazines, talcum powder, hair clippers, hot towels, and the sense of impending senior citizenship. It’s Super Cuts for JP, though.