We had been together for about five months when K. offered to cut my hair. Her mother had taught her, K. said, when she was in middle school, and she had cut her father’s and brothers’ hair for years, until she left for college. K. assured me that it was like riding a bike: when she had the scissors in her hand, it would all come back to her. Because I believed that I loved K., I accepted her offer and hoped that there was some significance in this chain—father, brothers, me. {read}