During the past few weeks I have searched my soul trying to think of something that would help bring my college career to a fitting close.

Of course, there are the memories — Jacque Vaughn spinning through the UCLA defense to push the Jayhawks to an improbable comeback victory in 1995, Lauryn Hill and the Fugees rocking the Granada, tearing down the goal posts last October, lying on the soft green grass in front of Fraser on those warm sun-drenched spring afternoons. I could go on forever. We all could.

There are talented professors who have helped me mature. My wonderful friends that I've been lucky enough to meet and my beautiful girlfriend, who knocked me upside the head with a big love punch when I wasn't looking. Each one of them has brought a special aspect to my life that I will be able to take with me into the real world.

And all these things are great.

But, I think there is thing I will miss the most about this sleepy little college town. The one thing that I won't be able to pack in a suitcase or keep in a memory. The one thing that will no longer be a regular part of my life is the haircuts.

That's right, the haircuts.

For the past four years, two or three times a month, I have been a regular at Downtown Barbershop on 824 Massachusetts St. And when I leave Lawrence, a part of me will always stay at the tiny little barbershop (and no, I don't mean my hair).

Four years ago, as a wide-eyed freshman I ventured out of the dorms and down to Mass Street looking for a place to rid me of my floppy locks. Like many things as a freshman, I was attempting to do something I had never done before. When I was growing up, my mom booked my haircuts. It was always at some fancy salon, with women named Pamela and Sandy who used too much hair gel and too few clippers. When I asked for “High and Tight”, they thought I was talking about their skirt preference (which I have no complaints about, but it doesn't help get you the haircut you want).

So as I wandered down Mass Street I peeked my head into the numerous barbershops, searching for the right one.

When I glanced in Downtown Barbershop, I knew I had found my spot. There it was: hardwood floors, walls adorned with various jerseys, cabinets filled with football helmets and a television that seemed permanently stuck on ESPN.

I walked in, plopped myself into Rex's chair and told the man what I wanted. I'll never forget that first conversation. I told him I was from Oklahoma and that I had grown up a die-hard Sooner fan. Before I could finish, Rex had cut me off.

“I'll never forgive that jerk Billy Tubbs,” Rex snapped. “I'll never forgive him for cutting down our nets at Kemper!”

I was stunned. My barber had just called the most popular basketball coach of my youth a “jerk”.

But then it dawned on me: This was my kind of sports fan. Even if I didn't like the haircut, how could I not like a guy who was still bitter about something that had happened nearly seven years ago? That is something that gets respect in my book. I mean, I found myself two nights ago cursing the New York Mets' Ron Darling for blowing the seventh game of the 1988 National League Championship Series against the Dodgers. I know bitter.

This place isn't so bad, I thought to myself as I walked out of the store. And I even liked the haircut.

The rest, as they say, is history.

During the years, Rex (and John) and I have discussed it all. From solving the problems of the Royals bullpen to the art of coaching baseball to how Roy should run his team down at Allen Fieldhouse. And regardless of our answer, we were always right.

Always.

So wherever I end up in the real world, I'm going to have to find a new Downtown Barbershop. Maybe it's out there. Maybe not. But I doubt it will be as good as the one down on Mass Street.

I only wish that when I come back in 20 years, hopefully with a wonderful family and a job that forces University officials to beg me for money, that the Downtown Barbershop is still around — and I still have hair to cut.