The Fallen Pompadour: an autobiographical note I had a job interview scheduled the next day, so I visited my haircutress for a trim. I have known her for a while and trust her in the way that one trusts a sibling or an old pickup truck. We chatted as usual while she snipped away. Then things came to an abrupt end. She swiveled the chair around and I looked in the mirror. In the mirror I saw me with a full-scale pompadour perched on my head. As owner of a full, thick Welsh head of hair that every haircutress likes to experiment on, and that for many years was cut in a style not unreminiscent of that worn by Robert Smith of The Cure, I am no stranger to interesting haircuts. But a tall pompadour? With an interview the next day? Mentally paralyzed, I paid and left. The next morning, I awakened to hair that was pressed straight down the front of my face, reaching my top lip. I brushed the hair; I teased the hair; I coaxed the hair; I even argued with the hair. Finally, it climbed back to its pompadour-style from the previous day, and off to my interview I went. If you have not sat through a one-hour job interview waiting for a tall pompadour to lose its structural integrity and fall, which, by the way, I think is mentioned in Dante, then you have not lived life to its fullest. I made it through the interview and left the building. The pompadour promptly fell. I have become accustomed to my new haircut - I call it "the fallen pompadour" - which is so odd that Greg at Utrillo"s Gallery, who is in the business of looking at odd things, noticed right away when I last saw him. With great tact, he refrained from asking me to exhibit my haircut at his gallery.