Flying Death
he replies.
“How much am I cutting,” I ask, once I’m satisfied he’s all combed.
“Shit, I’d have you shave it but it’d be cold on the bike. Take it as low as you can,” he says, dismissively.
I work in silence for a few minutes, trying to get a rhythm. I used to cut his and my dad’s hair all the time but now my dad just has the salon shave his with clippers and Travis probably has a Fly cut his, who knows. I’m not asking.
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