Last night I saw and felt myself at age 12 all over again. My son will turn 12 next month. He was told by the school principal he needed a haircut. It really wasn't that long (I've got no room to talk) but it's a private school with rules, take it or leave it. It's the same Catholic school I attended. Great place, I love it. Anyway, I took him to the barber. As I sat reading People magazine, my eye caught him sitting there looking into the mirror as the barber cut away all those locks that took so much time to acquire. He looked like he was going to cry. My heart went out to him. I was there once. You need that hair length to look good in front of the mirror while blasting the radio and playing air guitar. It's from those moments that rock and roll dreams are born. Damn, I hated getting my hair cut. And I was lucky that my grandfather was a barber. He was always on my side. He cut the least possible. I never forgot that. Every so often he'd show up at a gig and I'd play "La Bamba" for him. I owed him. I miss him. Let me get back to my story before I depress myself. Once my son's torture was over, I tried to console him: it's only hair, it'll grow back, you won't have to cut it over the summer, once you're in college you'll never have to cut it again (I left out the part about job interviews after graduation). He just shook his head and stared at my mane. Poor kid. Take care. Later, Butch