During my senior year of high school, most of the college-bound folks in my graduating class began making plans to enroll at Iowa State. It was a logical move, I suppose, as my hometown is just thirty miles from Ames. I didn't plan to join them, though. Sure, I was a die-hard Cyclones fan-and I still am-but I knew there was a vast world outside of rural Iowa. For reasons that I no longer remember, I chose to attend the University of Alabama at Huntsville.

Within my first few hours on campus, I met my roommate Brad, and we became instant friends. Like me, he was an accounting major, so I was thankful to have a live-in study partner. Both of us enjoyed weight lifting, and Brad surpassed me in physical strength just enough to encourage me to work harder. He was short and slightly chubby, but still very physically active. Early on, I noticed that many of the men on campus, including Brad, wore very short haircuts. This made sense, as the temperature and humidity in northern Alabama kept the air conditioners pumping. I had never given my own hair much thought. At the time, it was about four inches long on top and combed straight back. After a few days of Tennessee Valley humidity, I knew that I needed a shorter haircut.

After my last class on that first Friday, I headed back to our dorm room and found Brad packing his backpack to travel home. "Any plans for the weekend, Josh?" he asked me in his usual soft, Southern drawl.

"I haven't really thought about it, but I'll probably check out the Space & Rocket Center, and maybe do some studying."

"Wanna come home with me? My folks would be glad to meet you, and I can show you around the area. You'll have plenty of time for studying later." He didn't have to twist my arm too hard, and soon the two of us were in his beat-up Mazda pickup, heading east out of Huntsville toward his hometown of Scottsboro.

That evening, we went to a football game at his high school. I felt right at home, because if I had been back in my hometown on a Friday night in September, I would have most likely been at my high school stadium cheering on the old alma mater. A touchdown pass in the last quarter won the game for Scottsboro. After the game, three of Brad's friends-one guy and two girls-came over to the house, and we ate pizza and watched old episodes of MASH until after midnight. I really appreciated the way that they welcomed me into their group, as though we had always known each other. I was beginning to experience true Southern hospitality.

Their house was a typical 1960s ranch, very similar to the house in which I had grown up. One half of the basement was laundry and utility space, and the other half was Brad's room. I slept that night on a frayed but very comfortable couch in Brad's quarters. Perhaps it was a little too comfortable, because when I awoke on Saturday morning, Brad had already showered and dressed, and I could smell sausage and cinnamon rolls cooking in the kitchen. I put my contacts in and followed my nose up to the kitchen, where Brad, his parents, and his younger sister and brother had already gathered. I really felt like the lazy one of the bunch.

"What do y'all plan to do today?" Brad's mom asked after we had finished breakfast.

"Well, it looks like a good day for a hike," Brad replied. "Joel needs to see that there's more to Alabama than the bright lights of Huntsville." He ran his hand over his already-short hair. "First, though, I'm in need of a haircut, so I think we'll make a stop at Max's place first." To me, it seemed strange that Brad wanted his hair shorter than it already was, but of course I went along for the ride.

Max's Barber Shop was located in a "has-been" shopping plaza near downtown Scottsboro, next to a vacant space that had once been a Big B drug store. Other than the Good Year tire store, Max's seemed to be the only thriving business in the plaza. It was a typical small-town barber shop-two chairs, one barber, noisy fluorescent lights, a 13-inch TV tuned to ESPN, and one older man in the waiting area. One item caught my eye: a sign that read "Profanity is the attempt of a feeble mind to express itself forcibly." Oh-kay! I always tried to guard my language, especially around Brad, as I knew that he was very religious. With that in mind, I picked up a six-month-old Outdoor Life and started to read.

Brad's turn came within half an hour. I was a little surprised when Brad greeted Max with a bear hug, but as Max was fastening the cape around Brad, I could tell from their conversation that they had been friends for a long time. "The usual today, Braddinator?" Max asked.

"Yeah, trim it close," Brad replied, and soon Max had clipped Brad's light-brown hair down to a quarter inch on top and just a shadow on the sides and back. Previously, I wouldn't have recommended such a short cut, and definitely would not have gotten one myself, but it looked awesome on Brad.

Max finished his work, removed the cape, and accepted the ten-dollar bill from Brad. I stood up as Brad walked back toward the front door, then I headed straight for the chair. Without saying a word, Brad sat down in a waiting chair and picked up an issue of Popular Science, but I could tell that he was only pretending to read. I surprised all three of us when I heard my own voice say, "Make mine just like Brad's." With that, Brad gave up the pretending-to-read game, and a big smile spread across his face.

Max, just like the other Southerners I had met, talked with me as though he had always known me. My long hair surrendered to his Oster clippers without a fight, and within a few minutes I had only a fraction of the hair I had imported from the Midwest. As I handed Max a ten-dollar bill and two ones for a tip, he said, "Big improvement, Josh. Hope you'll come back soon." I told him that I would. Of course, I had to look at my image in the mirror and run my hand over my newly-cropped head.

Brad walked up behind me and put his arm around me. "I agree. You look awesome, buddy."

We spend the next few hours hiking along the Tennessee River north of Scottsboro. I had never known that Alabama had so much natural beauty. After that, we worked out and swam laps at the Y. I hadn't had much experience in driving a vehicle with a manual transmission, so Brad graciously gave me a crash course-let me rephrase that, a short course-in driving his pickup. (Two years later I returned the favor by paying for a new clutch.)

That was the first of many weekends in Scottsboro with Brad and his family over the next four years. On nearly every visit, we went to Max's on Saturday morning for haircuts. Max began to count me among his regular customers. A couple of times, after I had bought a car, I drove out to Scottsboro alone for a trim. Sure, there were plenty of barbershops in Huntsville, but I remained loyal to Max.

When I flew home for Thanksgiving that first year, my younger sister Denise met me at Des Moines International (not really) Airport, and her first words were, "Great haircut!" She hugged me, then ran her hand over my Max's Special. My parents and extended family were a little surprised at the new look also, but they noticed another change that seemed to overshadow my new hair style.

"You've really picked up an accent," Dad commented during Thanksgiving dinner. Mom, Denise, and my older brother Chad nodded in agreement. I knew they were right. Instead of the Midwestern "you guys," "y'all" had begun to slip into my conversations. Also, I caught myself referring to the shiny glass thing on the bathroom wall as a "mirr-uh" instead of a "meer" (like the old Russian space station).

Four years later, Brad and I received our Bachelors' degrees in accounting, and we said farewell to each other. I hadn't shed a tear in years, but when he shook my hand and hugged me on that final day in Huntsville, I thought someone had punched a hole in Guntersville Dam. He had been a true friend.

Brad earned his CPA designation and remained in Huntsville; I moved back to Iowa and found a job in Des Moines. We served as groomsmen in each other's wedding. Following our lead, our wives became instant friends, so we fly back to Huntsville every year to visit. To this day, my hair has not reached beyond a Number Three since that first shearing at Max's.