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Updated: May 15, 2025
The scissors artist who revises my pink-plus locks is a gray-haired old gink who'd never been nearer Berlin than First Avenue. Two of the other barbers looked like Greeks, and even Otto had clipped the ends of his Prussian lip whisker. Nobody in the place made a noise like a spy, and the only satisfaction I got was in lettin' Barry pay the checks. "I got to go somewhere and think," says I.
Now there's no doubt of his achievin' a pink-plus set of wavy locks that'll make a fresh-painted fire hydrant look faded. They're gettin' brighter and brighter and I expect in time they'll show the same new copper kettle tints that mine do. "I don't care," says Vee "I rather like it." "That's the brave talk, Vee!" says I. "It may be all he'll inherit from me, but it ain't so worse at that.
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