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  • We stopped for a coffee before heading home. Noah crawled around on the floor of the cafe, enchanting the seemingly-endless collection of old people looking to make contact. Who doesn't love a sweet baby with a sunshiney smile? Ben sat opposite me, talking about something as he ran his hands through his shaggy, thick hair (hair I've always been jealous of, what with my fine, straight hair). I sat, sipping my coffee, ensuring my hair covered my new scar and black eye, so as to not freak out the patrons (melanoma surgery, not domestic violence, People). I looked around, noticing just how populated with old people the cafe was; I'd forgotten how comforting it is to live somewhere that seemed to have a lot of people who'd lived a long life.

    The old dame sitting at the adjacent table leaned in towards Ben and said, "I love your hair". She told him that so few men wear their hair any way other than short, back and sides, that it gives him the aura of someone who "must be famous". I smiled to myself. Ben took the compliment, making small-talk with the lady.

    As we walked back to the car, I remarked that it wasn't the first time Ben had been a hit with the older ladies. It had now become "a thing".
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