My friends have told me there is no reason to suspect that the Ukrainians are spying on us. However, as citizens of a great democracy, based upon the principle of free speech, I had to remind them that we are duty bound by the First Amendment to openly and freely consider all sides of an issue.

So, there’s no reason to suspect the Ukrainians aren’t spying on us, either.

This means we must be continually vigilant, since we never know if the person who has engaged us in causal conversation is, in fact, a Ukrainian spy. This includes your hair stylist.

Okay, my hair stylist.

Stefan, although I’m wondering now if that’s his real name, suddenly displayed an unusual degree of knowledge about a small, Ukrainian village whose only tourist attraction is a polluted river.

He attributed his familiarity to a trip he took recently with his 70-year-old father. They went to meet a woman who lived in the village. A 35-year-old woman. A trim, toned, unmarried 35-year-old woman whom his father met on the internet and now longed marry and bring to America.

She longed to live in America, too. Apparently she’d been led to  believe that our streets are paved with gold. And, from the pictures Stefan showed me, Victoria’s Secret stores.

According to Stefan’s story, which I’m convinced deserved the adjective “cover,” his father met his new girlfriend through an internet dating service that helps red-blooded American men find happiness with buxom, blue-eyed Ukrainian women.

Stefan claimed he had to accompany his father to Ukraine and help the internet dating service work out a few details. These included power of attorney and the names of  clerics in the U.S. who would preside over a mixed marriage in which the bride and groom have nothing in common except Playboy magazine fantasies.

I told him that was hardly a good reason to move my appointment out by a full day.

When I asked him what he did during the trip he was uncharacteristically quiet. When he did speak, I swore he was different. Either that, or I’d never noticed pronouns and prepositions were not a part of his vocabulary.

“Have seen good movies?” I’m sure he said. I reeled off a few. He seemed disappointed none were from Sony Pictures. He quickly changed the subject, asking me if I’d heard any really good Putin gossip.

“No,” I said. “But, say, I think I can see two people behind the mirror.”

“Sit still,” he said, brandishing a pair of scissors way too close to my right ear. “But the people…”

Stefan ignored me, casually placing his cellphone on the side table next to mine. Instantly, the screen on my phone lit up. Sure, it could have been an incoming call, but I wasn’t going to give Stefan the satisfaction of my believing in coincidences.

I didn’t watch three seasons of Mission: Impossible only to come away a patsy.

It was when Stefan forgot to trim my eyebrows that I seized the opportunity to blow his cover. “Would you trim my eyebrows,” I said, “Comrade?”

He snipped away without a moment’s hesitation.

My friends are convinced I’m overreacting to the trauma caused by Stefan’s rescheduling my appointment. They pointed out that, after all these years, having my hair cut on Wednesday instead of Tuesday must have been disorienting.

They concluded Stefan accompanied his father on the trip at the behest of his family, who thought their father had come unglued and that Stefan was the strongest and most level-headed of the bunch.

I suppose that’s possible. Just tell me why, as I turned to wave goodbye, I swear I saw him answering his shoe.