At a certain point in the month, I know that I need a haircut. My gorgeous, curly locks become unmanageable and no amount of DEP gel can control and tame them into a socially acceptable style of hair fashion.

As a young man I suffered through the "Elvis" years and envied the shiny, black, slicked down pompadours of my friends. Curly topped and freckled, I grew up and proceeded into my 20s. Last Saturday it was again time for scissors and razors. My hair was knotted and it protruded in every direction. With my type of hair I am not afraid to try new barbershops. My hair grows back eventually and again becomes thick and twisted.

I wandered into a barbershop or beauty shop or stylist (they have so many names) in downtown Hicksville. The language of the clientele was Spanish. I speak no Spanish but they were extremely cordial. I was led to a chair and I sat quietly to wait my turn.

A mother with three boys and a girl was shepherding each of her brood into the barber chair. Each boy strode bravely up onto the chair for the ritual of the monthly trimming of the locks. Each boy was handsomely freckled and blue-eyed as was the mother of this lovely family.

The little 3-year-old girl was probably adopted as she was Asian. She was very playful and a bit winsome, as she chattered and played around the, by then, very busy barber shop.

She wanted some hairpins on the shelf and she asked me to help her get them. I lifted her onto my lap and she played with the pins and spoke to me and, mostly, to herself.

Soon she tired of the playthings and returned to her mother. As she neared her mother's side the mother blurted out loudly and intensely, "He's a stranger! Why did you go to him?" Again, she repeated in a voice that froze the whole barber shop and all 15 of the 20 people. "He's a stranger!"

I was stunned. The shop owner who could not say anything looked at me sympathetically. Sitting, waiting for my turn, I was now an instant pariah. It was very unpleasant.

The steely blue-eyed mother looked at me in a hateful fashion and only snarls emanated from her face. I was the "devil incarnate" who had come for his monthly haircut. Actually, I am a proud father of three beautiful, intelligent children and the loving grandfather and "Pop-pop" of four adorable grandchildren

I did not respond to the mother. I whispered to the empathetic shop owner, who was giving a severe Marine bush-cut to a gentleman, "In my own home I am not a stranger." She nodded kindly and knowingly and continued cutting.

I am understanding of this mother's intention to teach her children not to embrace "strangers" but she could have handled it with some delicacy.

As she left with her group she tossed me a frozen glance that could have formed instant ice-cubes.

The people in the shop, who do not converse easily in English, were soothing and mollifying to me. To them I was not a horrible stranger with evil intentions. I was just a guy waiting for a haircut.