It has come to my attention that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who like to get haircuts and those who don't. I am among the thumbs-down-on-haircuts group. The reason I get haircuts is because the alternative is a dog license. The only good thing about haircuts is the massage.

However, there are people who enjoy haircuts. Like our demon entertainment editor, Wayne Harada. Maybe it's because he wears his hair like a skull cap and all the barber has to do is make a pass or two with clippers.

Chris Sykes, a page designer in the newsroom, also likes to get haircuts. She said it's because her hairstylist gives her the latest gossip, such as who is engaged to Miss Hawai'i and stuff like that. I don't really care who is engaged to Miss Hawai'i, so I don't think I'll go there.

Jerry Burris, senior editorial editor, said he doesn't like to get haircuts, either, but his dad loves them. To his dad, a haircut is a recreational activity. When Jerry goes to visit, his dad will say, "Let's go get a haircut."

My fellow writer, Will Hoover, is anti-haircut like me. He said he can't get barbers to cut his hair the right way. When he finally finds a barber who does a good job, Hoover sticks to him or her like bread on jelly. Then the barber dies or gets married or moves away and he's stuck.

This has happened to me over and over. I found the world's greatest barber years ago in the old Army-Navy YMCA. This gentleman used to cut the hair of former Gov. Jack Burns. One time when then-President Harry Truman was in town, he needed a haircut. Burns told him to hop across the street to the Army-Navy Y.

So I've had my hair cut by a very distinguished barber. He loved to talk about his kids who had Ph.D.s. But my barber spoke in Filipino pidgin. I could hardly understand him no matter how proud I was of his kids. He had one other distinguishing feature. He said he learned to cut hair under a mango tree in a plantation camp in Kahuku.

When the Army-Navy YMCA closed, this barber moved down to River Street. I had the devil of a time finding him, and then, about three haircuts later, he passed on to that great barbershop in the sky. Larry, another barber of Filipino extraction, replaced him. When Larry wasn't cutting hair, he was in Las Vegas gambling.

He invariably mangled my sideburns, which he mistook for the Elvis Presley kind. This is vile slander. My sideburns have several names, including mutton chops and burnsides, after a whiskered Civil War general, Ambrose Burnside. I let them grow out on the William Ellis Expedition around Hawai'i in 1973.