A barber shop story: A true one

I was about 6 years old then. And it was no different than any of my earlier 'haircut days'. My father woke me up early and signalled using his two fingers by making them move around like a scissor that I needed to get my hair cut today. I washed up, held on to his finger and walked up to Shravan's barber shop near my apartment. Shravan slept in a little room behind the shop. My father knocked on the door a couple of times which woke him up and he smiledwhen he saw us.
I liked the shop. I had never gone to another one.
Black and white photographs of men with various out-of-fashion hairstyles hang above a picture rail at the end of the room, where two barber's chairs are bolted to the floor. Shravan places a wooden board covered with a piece of cloth across the arms of the chair, so that he doesn't have to stoop to cut the boy's hair. I scramble up onto the bench.
"The rate at which you're growing, you won't need this soon, you'll be sitting in the chair," the barber says.
"Wow," I say, squirming round to look at my dad, forgetting that I can see him through the mirror. "Anna, Shravan said I could be sitting in the chair soon, not just on the board!"
"Hmm" my father replies, not looking up from the paper. "I expect Shravan will start charging me more for your hair then."
"At least double the price," said Shravan, winking at me.
Finally my father looks up from his newspaper and glances into the mirror, seeing his son looking back at him. He smiles.
"Wasn't so long ago when I had to lift you onto that board because you couldn't climb up there yourself," he says.
"They don't stay young for long do they, kids," Shravan says. My dad nods in agreement.
Shravan starts running his scissors all over my hair and in no time he's done. I jump off the board to find the floor strewn with the black locks from my head. I wanted to gather them but my father pulled me away.
"Breakfast must be ready, amma must be waiting", he said. I was already hungry and got excited thinking of breakfast and grabbed hold of my dad's hand. His hands closed around mine and I was surprised to find, warming in my father's palm, a lock of my own hair.

I remembered this incident and told my mother about it and she cried. She said my father had told her about this incident that day. He had realized I wouldn't remain the little boy for long, who would grab hold of his hand and go out with him. I realized the reason behind the lock of hair in his hand.

Just wanted to say I'll always be his little boy.