A farewell to dandruff ...
One of this year's last cuts of our faithful Figaro Bruno concerned my brother Thierry's head of hair. The latter allegedly avoided resorting to this profession for decades, his successive barbers being either his spouse or one of his veterinary assistants, correctly so.
Upon "receiving" him out of the hands of our common mother at the dawn of a trip to La Franqui, I promised to make sure he would be granted a decent hairdo as an added bonus. One cannot possible disobey an aging mother and so it was.
In order to render the process more bearable for him, I made sure the serving officer would offer all kinds of quality warranties. First, he's been cutting my own hair for the best part of ten years, quite an endeavour. Second, his barber parlour stands just opposite the location of Christine's previous wine shop. But, more importantly so, the nice chappy could impersonate either Fidel Castro or Billy Gibbons, depending upon one's preferences.
Breaking news: the whole process has been a huge success.
More about it later!
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