You might think this was a weird dream, but it seemed so realistic to me! I was myself, at about sixteen or seventeen years of age, trying to convince my barber, who was serving me breakfast, and looking over my shoulder and kibbitzing, while I was working on a poem about a clock, why he shouldn't phone my parents to tell them about me wanting him to dye my navel-length white beard a light gray, when they thought white made me look sophisticated for my age, and I thought gray made me look less conspicuous. He offered, "Tick-tock, and your head is like a rock!" (Everybody thinks they can write poetry if they can make two rhymes.) I said, "Tony, stick to barbering, and bring me my grits!"