The first day back after leave, I got a haircut the day before.
My usual barber didn't ask where I'd been. He just tilted my head, snipped, let the silence sit.
A swim cap was tucked in a junk drawer at home. From before my brother left. I don't swim anymore. I don't know if he does.
The barber knew when not to talk. That's a skill I never learned.
Next morning, I walked into a third-grade classroom with clippings still on my collar. A kid said I looked like a new man.
I smiled. Maybe a new man starts with someone who doesn't ask what you lost.