I remember going to the barber for a haircut with my father when I was a boy. I grew up in Rising Sun, Ohio, a small town with a general store, a lonely post office, and only one barber. I must have been about 9 or 10 years old. I don’t remember much about the barber himself or the shop except for the traditional, red and blue swirled barber’s pole and the smell of overly-applied aftershave. The most significant part about getting a hair cut was being touched by a man.