The barber shop is a childhood memory. I went there with my dad in the sixties (mom made me and my sister keep hair very short) and I sat in the chair / pony in a very similar shop, lined with wooden panels, with large mirrors and leather armchairs. The haircuts are mine and that of my son (which unlike me little girl has very long hair); the trees are those of the park of Piazza Vittorio, the square that is now my home and which marked for me a generational revenge.
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