I shattered my hip, broke two ribs, and fractured my wrist. Just like that, my fifty-one-year career was over. The clippers were put down for good. After the hospital, they moved me into a rehabilitation facility.

If you’ve never been in one, let me tell you, it strips you of whatever pride you have left.

You go from being the mayor of your own little barbershop to feeling like a broken piece of furniture shoved into a corner. I spent my days staring at a popcorn ceiling, eating bland food, and feeling incredibly sorry for myself. I assumed the neighborhood had moved on.

I assumed my old customers had found new barbers, and I assumed my apprentices were too busy running their own successful businesses to think about the old man who used to yell at them for not sweeping up the neck hair fast enough. I was wrong.

This past Saturday, the door to my miserable little rehab room swung open. In walked Danny, Ortiz, and Big Mike. They filled up the tiny room immediately, three grown, successful men standing awkwardly around a hospital bed. They brought me a terrible cup of coffee from the lobby and asked the usual polite questions about my hip and my physical therapy.

But there was a strange, thick tension in the room. They kept exchanging glances, the way they used to when they messed up a haircut and were trying to figure out who was going to confess to me. “What is it?” I finally rasped, pushing myself up on my good elbow.

“You three look like you’re waiting for a firing squad. Spit it out.” Danny stepped forward. He looked a little older now, some gray starting to show at his temples, which made me feel ancient.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his smartphone, and cleared his throat.

“Boss,” Danny started, his voice a little thicker than usual. “We know you never came by our shops. We know you hate making a fuss, and we know you thought we weren’t paying attention all those years we spent sweeping your floors.” He unlocked his phone and held it out to me.

I had to fumble on the bedside table for my reading glasses. When I finally slid them onto my face and focused on the bright screen, my breath caught in my throat. It was a picture of the interior of Danny’s new barbershop. It was beautiful—exposed brick, vintage leather chairs, top-of-the-line mirrors.

But he wasn’t showing me the decor. He had zoomed in on a heavy wooden sign hanging directly over his primary barber chair. The painted letters read: THE LOST TICKET CHAIR. If you are getting ready to bury your father, or if you are heading to a job interview and your shoes are worn through, your money is no good here.

Paid in full by the Old Man. I stared at the screen, my eyes burning.