On Tuesday mornings the chairs face the lawn, because that is when the dandelions like a quiet comb. A small queue forms along the curb: round heads, a little sleep-pressed, waiting for the cape that keeps the fluff from drifting into the sugar bowl.
We asked at the kiosk across the street. "Mine came out rounder," said a man with a paper bag of rolls. "It bowed to the breeze by the door, and the breeze bowed back, so nobody had to hurry."
A note in the thanks book read: Please do not blow until they have said goodbye. The barber, tying a seed-sized towel, added that Tuesdays are for listening more than cutting. "The fluff tells you when it is finished," he said. "You only have to nod."
By evening one freshly combed head had returned, just to practice the bow. The wind held still for a count of three, then accepted the greeting and went on down the alley.