Herr Marx would always run out without paying for his haircut. And tipping? Forget about it.
As a young man, Al wanted to be regarded as a genius scientist, so I gave him a genius scientist haircut. “Fake it ‘till you make it,” I told him. “Genius,” he said.
Fred would stare at his freshly cut hair drifting to the floor and whisper: “There is no God, only dead hair.”