A local theater company called Theatrication asked me to be in a performance. The director of the play knocked on my door and, bowing low, obsequiously begged my pardon for his presumptuousness. Would I, he asked, deign to honor Theatrication by appearing in Long Ago When Sugar Was Sweeter. They could not pay me Broadway rates, of course, but naturally I could have any role I wanted. Then he appealed to my sense of righteousness by implying that my participation would support local theater, thereby helping the careers of young actors and enriching the cultural life of the town.

Although the man's saccharine tone and patent insincerity made me want to puke, I agreed to be in the production. Retirement had been great for a year or two, but I was starting to feel useless. As there was no way I was going back to the "life," doing a little community theater seemed a reasonable alternative. I thought it would do me good.

To the director's dismay, I did not choose the starring role. Not only did I realize that no amount of make-up could convincingly turn a seventy-five year old man into a teenage milkmaid, but I also found the town barber to be a much more interesting character. I had only three lines in the play, one per act. The lines were these:

• "If I cut these three hairs here, they may never grow back."
• "My grandmother, God rest her soul, was born a redhead, was blonde by the age of twenty-five, turned brunette by thirty, had black hair through her forties, and died at sixty with wisps of silver. People said she dyed it, but she didn't. And people said she never cried, but she did, at night sometimes, with her back to the window."
• "It's only a matter of time until people decide their hair is more trouble than it's worth. We'll all be bald someday, maybe with our scalps painted different colors to indicate our professions. My descendants will be head-painters and yours will have golden scalps."