When I was a little boy, on Friday afternoons my Dad would come and scoop me up from school to take me with him to the barbershop back in South Jersey. I still remember him making me greet whoever was cutting my hair that day. I would throw in a quick “What’s up?” as I climbed into the barber chair, planting myself onto the kids stool that the barber had placed on the large seat. Periodically, the stylist would spin me around in the chair to get a better cutting angle, and I would lock eyes with my dad. He’d always shoot me a wink, and I’d respond with a smile. For years, my pop would choose my haircut for me. Partly because I didn’t know much about haircuts, and partly because I was too shy to tell the barber what I wanted. So every Friday it was the same cut. Low on top, Bald fade, with a little part on the side. Once I got a bit older, I started to care more about my appearance, and I remember finally feeling ready to choose my own style. It took me a few times to build up the co...