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  • I walk past these men every Thursday afternoon on my way to work. They're always there, on the wall of a barbershop, captured in their 80's heyday: the college jock with his jacket hanging over his white t-shirt--he's the type you can bring home to momma; the pair of suited and gelled partygoers--you never know where their fun will lead; and the bad boy, with his close-cropped hair, his black leather jacket, his plump lips and intense gaze--he wants you, so you must want him.

    The triptych is hilarious and bizarre. These boys, caught in one moment of their lives, are forever known on this barbershop wall, perhaps many barbershop walls (who are they now? who were they then?). I like to pretend I'm knocking back a scotch with the left boy of the party pair, the one whose bangs shoot straight up in a wall of blonde-brown, whose face is caught in an expression of eternal surprise. His name is Max, sometimes with a double x, and we're watching cat videos on my phone, laughing so hard we're crying.
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