I’ve had roughly the same haircut for a decade. Like a lot of people, I find comfort in delivering my precise specifications to a barber. I could take my head to any chair and say, “No. 2 clipper on the sides, fade it in, and a half-inch off the top.”
It’s not just that I liked the predictability and don’t like the chitchat. It’s because in my early 20s, I made some truly gruesome hair errors. I grew it down to my eyelashes—picture early Justin Bieber, or the McDonald’s Fry Guy—and bleached it electric blond. I spent two years twitching it out of my eyes.