My hair was long.
I moved into my new place about two months ago. Settled in.
In Singapore, you can tell the age of an HDB estate by its design. Structures repeat. Time shows up in small details.
I decided to look for my old barber. I had not seen him since 2000.
He was still there. Same shop. Same chair. That alone felt like a small victory against time.
I asked him to trim the sides. Just a clean-up.
His hands were unsteady. He hesitated. My hair was not the short crop he was used to. He is old school. One style. One way.
I walked out with a mullet.
It is fine.
I did not go there for precision. I went there to see him. We spoke about the years in between. Work. Family. The usual accounting of time.
In my line of work, I cannot stop learning. New tools, new processes, new ways of doing things. If I do, I decay.
Quietly at first.
He chose a different path. Master one thing. Repeat it for decades. There is dignity in that too.
Not every skill needs to scale. Not every craft needs to reinvent itself.
My hair will grow back. Next time I might pay twice as much for a hairdresser who understands modern styles.
But I would still stop by to say hello.
Some relationships are worth more than symmetry.