Back in the sheriff's office, I sat down at my desk, and unwrapped the ham sandwich. I set the pickle aside, and took a bite of the sandwich. As I chewed on the big slices of ham, I picked up the note on my desk. I could see the big swirling writing in Deputy Dorphmire's hand. As I read the note, I could feel my anger rising. "Damn it," I swore. This was the third complaint about Floyd, the barber, in six months. We may have to get another Floyd.
I managed to calm myself enough to finish my lunch. Brushing the crumbs from my shirt I, stood and donned my hat. It was a short two blocks to the barbershop so i walked. The sunshine was bright overhead. A perfect day. The disagreeable little bell over Floyd's door dinged, as I walked into his shop. Floyd looked up from cutting Herold Megan's hair, and said, "Afternoon Sheriff. You need a haircut?"
"This isn't a social call, Floyd. I have another complaint against you. And I guess you know what that means." Floyd set the comb and clippers on the counter. "The three strikes clause?" "Yes, Floyd, and personally I hate it. You have been the best of the last six or seven Floyd's, but we can't make exceptions just because I like you."
"I understand, Sheriff. I'll be out of town by sundown."
"Sheriff, can you tell me what I did wrong."
"I guess that wouldn't hurt. Mrs. Irving complained the you didn't cut her husband's sideburns short enough. She said they were one quarter of an inch too far down his ear."
I felt sad to see Floyd, his head hung low, leaving the barbershop, but in Our Hometown, rules are rules.