Everyone has their own birthday rituals. Some women take spa days, some wine collectors drink a special bottle from their cellars, some people sit and wallow in self-pity. I know a guy who is severely lactose intolerant, and once a year on his birthday, he indulges in a few pints of premium ice cream and then has the courtesy to sequester himself in privacy for a few hours as the effects take place. It’s a small price to pay, he says, for a once-a-year treat.

Me, I get a haircut. Wherever I am, I find a barber and get a trim, whether I need it or not. One year, I was in Istanbul and got the best haircut of my life. Once I was in Boston and spent an hour in the barber’s chair with scissors snipping and razors buzzing but left with no discernible change to my hair at all. I left a Manhattan barber shop in the East Village looking like a chrysanthemum. And I will never forget the birthday when I realized that I was old enough to need my eyebrows trimmed.