Watching my dad get a haircut was quite an event.

It wasnt that it was an irregular thing. Actually, he got it cut every two weeks, and only if a holiday intruded did he make that three.

Dads barbershop was located in the back of a Beverly Hills haberdashery, called Druckers, after the name of its proprietor, Harry Drucker. (Harry was President Reagan's personal barber.)

Harry and his elite team of manicurists, barbers, stylists, and gofers put on quite a customer service show, but it was understated. He knew us all by name and made sure to ask about my Little League exploits, which were carried in stories and box scores in the local paper.

Dad always declined manicures, though they were perennially offered by ever flirting ladies who looked about twenty years beyond what could have been their Playboy centerfold modeling days.

Still, they had the moves, and even I knew there was chemistry in the air.

My dad diligently kept his appointments and I could see why. Haircuts were the closest he got to being pampered, and while he eschewed some of the fancier offerings, he got his fill of feeling important.

Even if he could stretch another week between cuttings, why deprive yourself of the regal treatment?

And dad always emerged feeling like a star, and he looked pretty good, too.

I think he used these events as perks, little motivators, especially if things werent soaring in business. He knew exactly what he needed to pick himself up.

And if he couldnt get the car to the car wash, he made sure his windows were spotless.

I asked him why and he said, Gary, a clean windshield changes your entire outlook on life! appreciating his own pun.

So, if you want to beat the blues, you know what to do!