Don't ask how this New Year's post will lead to Bruce Springsteen … I'm just kind of hoping it does before the clock strikes midnight and it's done.
Start with this odd opening sentence: I'm not sure when I stopped caring who cut my hair. Well, I'm not. I don't think I was ever particularly controlling about who cut my hair or how but maybe five or six years ago, I stopped caring entirely. I would be driving home from an interview or a meeting or something, and I would think, "You know, I need a haircut." I would stop at the most convenient place that happened to be on my route home, usually one of those mass-production haircut places with a lot of TVs. The haircut greeter would ask, "Do you have a stylist preference?" I would always say no. And whoever happened to be available cut my hair.
What did I care? For me, with my hair, the barber/stylist is like whoever happens to be cooking the burgers at McDonald's that day … what difference would it make? This is one of the great (and few) advantages of being mostly bald. There's really only so much damage any barber or hair stylist can do. At exactly the same time, there's really only so much success they can have. These are the tradeoffs in life.