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I would love to have had a dime for every head of hair Charlie cut, or a nickel for every person that just came into the shop to pass time. Charlie either had a network of spies that the KGB would have envied, or he had ESP, because never did I go into his shop on Saturday morning, that he wouldn’t casually bring up who I had dated the night before, and where we had gone. It was uncanny. For years after Charlie quit cutting hair, he would still sit on the porch of his house on Main Street, and wave at all the friends he had from his years at the barber shop.
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