The Barber Here’s where the boys cry until the soft brush with the sweet white power tickles their ears and it’s all over again for while. I hated going to the barber because I wasn’t a boy and there’s no place on earth where they treat you worse because you are a girl than at the barber. But I never cried. I used to get mad. No matter how much I pleaded, he would not use the clippers on top or give me wax to make the front stand up. Not only that, but he never got my bangs straight and kept breathing in my face while he tried. His magazines were all wrinkled and torn and full of ladies wearing bathing suits. There was nothing to eat and your weren’t allowed to taste the colored waters. When it was all over, my neck itched. Still, the spinning barber’s pole kept promising candy canes and amusement rides in a big red chair.