I’m strolling with The Squeeze in front of the restaurants and bars that line the edge of Piazza del Campo. Though I say so as shouldn’t, my ’fro is looking particularly good, the result of that soft Siena water. In front of us steps a nattily dressed older gent wearing a red beret. He holds up a single hand, traffic-cop style. Stop. He puts his right hand into the inside left breast pocket of his jacket, and with a theatrical flourish he produces a shiny steel comb, which he offers me.
We cracked up.