Master

  When I was a kid, there was a tradition that adult men were called "Mister", and boys were called "Master".  I never liked that designation.  My name was "Walter".  I didn't like being called "Master Walter".  It just seemed kind of stupid to me.  I would be introduced in formal settings with my parents as "Master".  That word also had other connotations to me as being the one in charge of things, and I certainly wasn't in charge of anything.  

 As time went on, I cringed at being called by that word.  Either introduce me by my first name or not at all.  So, one day, my father and I were in Georgetown, SC.  He was down there to preach in a church one Sunday, and I tagged along.  I was about 12.  That Saturday, he took me to a barber shop to get a haircut.  When we walked into the shop, the barber immediately knew we weren't his regular customers.  My father introduced me as his son Walter.  The barber said, "Have a seat, Mister Walter."  That was the first time anyone had called me "Mister".  I was so excited, that I strutted up to the barber chair.  I was no longer a master.  The barber also used a straight razor on my face, even though I had nothing there except peach fuzz.  That was a little scary, since nobody had done that before either.  One wrong move, and there would be blood.  I held still basking in the happiness that I was a "Mister".  

 After my father finished his preaching, we headed back to Columbia.  On that trip back, he told me the facts of life.  I already knew about the birds and the bees before his lecture in the car.  After all, I was now a Mister.  I let him go through the story, though.  That's what polite misters do.