Towards the end of any haircut, when the barber pulls out the electric trimmer to shape the line where my hair meets my neck, I always worry that someone will to bump into him, that he’ll for some other reason lurch a bit, and that I’ll be left for the next few months with a bald runway up the back of my head.

Unfounded as that fear might be, it was only magnified today when I headed in to the Three Aces Barber Shop, an old-school place with giant jars of Barbisol and framed pictures of boxing matches. And, more importantly, a place where they trim neck hair not with electric trimmers, but with hot shaving cream and straight-razor.

Turns out, there’s really nothing to exacerbate that sort of phobia like an eighty-year-old with failing eyesight, essential tremor, apparent balance issues, and a freshly honed open blade.