“Hey,” chuckled Paul Müller when he saw me at Klaudio’s today, “you look like a Beatle.” He was on his way out as I walked in. “And you look like Jacques Cousteau,” I chuckled back on account of his woolen hat. But Paul is right. My hair is longer then ever. It sticks out every which way. This week I missed my appointment with Klaudio’s mother, Đurđa, who cuts my hair every four weeks or so. In places it might be even longer than a centimeter. Yuck. My instructions for Đurđa are always the same: point-three on the side and point-four on top. The settings on her electric hair-clipper are in centimeters, as well. But Paul’s joke struck me again on my way home, when I felt my hair move in the strong wind. For me, that is the pits. There are few things I hate more than feeling my hair move in the wind. Like a Beatle for true.