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My master trained me for three years, yelled at me for three years, and to this day the way I hold scissors is how he bent my hand into position. The shop has his group photos from the '80s hanging up—not one with me in it. So I took one: him standing, me half a step behind him, neither of us smiling, just like those old portrait studios. He glanced at it and said "you're standing crooked," then kept it for himself.
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