My barber congratulated me on keeping myself looking so fit in spite of being just shy of fifty years old. He guessed my age to within a few months, but he was way off about the keeping fit.

“You go visit the gym every day, don’t you?” he asked.

I frowned at him. “What?” I asked. I sincerely thought I’d heard him wrong. Nobody has ever asked me that and my logic detectors couldn’t figure out why he would say such a thing.

“You work out a lot? You look pretty fit.”

Again, it seemed to be a question so far out in left field I was at a loss. “Really?”

“Sure! You’re, what, six months shy of fifty? You look pretty good for fifty. You must work out.”

“I don’t work out at all,” I advised him. “I’ve always looked like this.”

It was his turn to be nonplussed. “No kiddin? Lucky dog!”

He got a pretty good tip.