My dog can't go in the barber shop with me anymore, but I don't know why because she curled up by the door and minded her own business until I got out of the chair, when she would gaze at me in astonishment, wondering how I had changed so much in just a few minutes. The sign now says, Sorry, No Dogs. The word sorry is pure hypocrisy and I resent it; it gives off a hollow ring like a spurious coin when tapped on the counter. My barber, whom I have called Nick for the past twelve years, has informed me that he is now a stylist, not a barber, and that he would appreciate it if I would call him Mr. Nicholas in the future. I'm looking for a new barber.
--Caskie Stinnett, "A Room with a View," Down East