“Got time for a haircut?” my father asks as soon as soon as I walk through the door of my house. He is waiting for me, literally opening the door as I walk up the two front steps. He and my mom are there when I get home, having gotten my sons off of the school bus. I take a deep breath. “Sure,” I say, “let me grab the stuff.” I pull one of the dining room chairs onto the tile of the kitchen floor, walk down the hall and grab the comb, scissors, and clippers. Sitting there in the middle of my kitchen, my eighty-two-year-old father looks old. He looks tired, and I am not sure it has been a good day. He no longer looks like the father of my childhood remembrance. I take his glasses from him and place them on the counter beside us. I wrap a towel around his thin shoulders; he folds his right hand over his twisted and atrophied left, and the world tilts. The patient way he waits for me to begin, the vulnerability of it, knocks me off center. I grab pieces between my finger