In the beginning, my mother cut my hair. Finally, I turned seven years old.  It was 1962. My mother, my father, and I stood in the kitchen, my mother gently running her fingers through my hair.  She looked at my father and said, "Joseph, I think it's time, and I'm pretty sure our little man here doesn't want another buzz cut from me." Enjoying the moment, he teased, "I don't know, Grace.  Do you really think he's ready?" My redheaded, freckle-faced, wide-eyed grin ping-ponged between them.  After what seemed forever, my father smiled and put his arm around my shoulders, and we headed for the door.  My father taking me for my first real haircut at the barbershop – culture reflected in our family traditions – a special moment. Today, parents spend lots of time telling their kids how special they are, and the rest of us spend lots of time telling adults the same thing.  Despite the fact that...(Read Full Article)