Someday, when we’re rich, I won’t cut hair any more. Until then, every few months I pull out the clippers and torture my boys by cutting their hair. Actually, it’s as much torture for me as it is for them, but they don’t believe that any more than the old line: “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” I’m really not good at cutting hair, and I’m always tired and relieved when the job is done. Then I spend the next day or two peering at the boys’ hair, examining stray bits and muttering and snipping and reminding myself how much money I saved by cutting their hair myself. Someday, that money will be spent very gladly by me, and will be considered money well spent.