He’s British. You can just tell. Owlish and reedy; fair hair parted to one side; striped sweater. Think Harry Potter minus the magic hat.
He had just moved to the States. I was a “walk in” at the salon that was built to look old-timey. Synth music burbled. I said the name “Steven Tin Tin Duffy” for the first time in 25 years. He did a good job cutting my hair but his demeanor alternated between being intently focused and vaguely apologetic. A true limey, this one.
We made eye contact. He was talking excitedly with his friends who were also British because they looked like him but with different colors of hair and stripes. Same nest, different owlets.
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