Thanks, George

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George has been cutting my hair since 1986.

He’s originally from Luxembourg, and by way of serendipity I discovered a long time ago that he was a boyhood friend of Tour de France winner Charly Gaul. Over the years we’ve had many great conversations about bike racing while he cut my hair. If not racing, then golf, which is the sport that he plays. How could I ever have someone else cut my hair?

About a month after my accident, I was ready to get my hair cut. I called George.

“Hi George, this is Brian calling”.
“How are you?” (said in Luxembourg accent)
“Well, not so good. I have a broken leg.”
“I suppose I don’t have to guess about how that happened.”

I couldn’t remember if he had stairs. I couldn’t go up and down stairs at the time. Unfortunately, he did. So I had to do something I really did not want to do: go somewhere else, where I could manage with crutches.

It felt very strange. The girl who cut my hair had that twenty-something air of indifference about her, coupled with alcohol-hangover breath. “Just cut it short”, I said.

I can go up and down stairs now. I haven’t taken the elevator at work for the last 2 weeks. Stairs are great physical therapy.

So I called George today, and he managed to squeeze me in after work.

I’m running my hand over my (short) hair, and it feels good. I’m reminded how my daughter, when she was little, used to run her hand up the back of my freshly-cut short hair, against the grain, while sucking her thumb. Kind of like her security blanket.

Good times.

I may even try to ride outside tomorrow.

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