Everytime I have a haircut it reminds me of my Dad. As I sit in the chair and watch the barber I see the grey locks of my hair fall. For whatever reason those grey locks instantly remind me of Dad. They don’t look like my hair, but like his. I think this every time I see them, even if I remember in advance.
Dad died almost seven years ago. I guess it’s only natural that I’m thinking about him. However, this year I feel will be different. I’ve been very aware of the black dog that visits me this time of year. Over the last 6 years he has always come, sometimes sitting down next to me, even resting his head on my knee. I am always pleased to see the black dog but not so pleased by what he represents.
As I write I see the black dog in the distance, wagging his tail. He’s probably thinking it’s time. But this year it’s different. That’s as close as he gets. The truth is I don’t need the annual visit to remind me of my Dad. He’s with me all the time. In my wallet I carry an old coin and a St. Christopher that he used to carry in his. But as my Dad could be a grumpy so and so I don’t see why I need to be as well.
I prefer to think of my Dad smiling, sharing something that he enjoyed, maybe something on TV or perhaps a dirty joke. I can also see him playing with the dog, white as it happens, rather than black. I have a vague memory of being taken to the barbers and Dad having his hair cut. I wonder if he looked down at the falling locks and thought about his Dad?
.jpg)
