Life is made of rituals. One of my rituals is to take, once a year, when in Bologna, my son to the barber. The barber is the same where my grandfather used to go every week to have hair and moustache trimmed. Sometime he took my brother and I along, and as my brother sat in the high chair I was allowed to read comics.
To be perfectly honest they did a very poor job of cutting my son’s hair. I guess that is the beauty of the ritual: you just go agead no matter what. The hair will grow again!