(Some facts were bent/stretched in the remembering. If you want factual accuracy, make your own blog ;)
Someone once told me that when going to get a hair cut, you should dress the way you want your hair to look. Dress for success, so to speak. Look nice, put your best foot forward, and so might the hairdresser. Well, actually that someone was Terrie. Yesterday, in fact. I had just returned from Wal-Mart, where I had gotten my hair 'did'. Yes, that's right. I got a Wal-Mart haircut. I was there anyway, since my meds were ready at the pharmacy. I didn't want to run out of Dopamine. You know, on account of the Parkinson's. Also, my adult daughter Emma was in town for a visit, and since I don't drive anymore (you know, on account of the Parkinson's), I figured she might drive me to town for a Wally's run. When we got there, there was no wait time at the local 'Smart-Style Salon' and my little Froggy even offered to do my grocery shopping while she waited. My morning meds seemed to be working well enough at the time for me to tolerate some time in the chair, so I put aside my reservations any rational person might have about getting a Wal-Mart haircut and got myself into the chair. What could go wrong. You can't kill this kind of handsome. But boy, making even the smallest of decisions these days can sure be complicated. You know, on account of the Parkinson's...
Terrie had suggested that I should bring in my 'best' self to the salon in order to get the look I aspired to. A self fulfilling prophecy. If you might envision your dream look, your stylist could envision themselves giving you that look. I had my doubts that this would work in your average 'SmartStyles' salon. My smart-ass response to her anyways was that MY dream haircut was a buzz cut, for free, done by me, with my old electric clippers. The 'look' I was envisioning was that I don't give a rat's patoottie what I look like. By her expression, I think her opinion was that I certainly would end up with that look I desired. You get what you deserve.
Terrie, by the way, is my ex-wife. For seven or eight years now, she has been my ex. Despite the 'erstwhile' nature of our relationship, she is a wonderful person, the best I know, really. She is a great mom, a kind, lovable person, and a fair and unbiased appraiser of hairstyles. She has never been a big fan of my life decision making processes in general, and specifically she has always found my attitudes on style, grooming and personal appearance 'to loath'. Fair observation. There is a long list of people who could not find constant cohabitation with me tolerable on many levels. Not unreasonable at all.
Recently it has come to pass that she has moved in with me here at the Grassy Knoll. She took up residence in my mobile home's palatial guest suite, and for the last year or two she has been driving me to appointments, helping me shop, keeping my pills in order, helping me with meals, and occasionally picking me up off the floor. You know, on account of the Parkinson's. A while back she was between leases and my Mom had just recently died, leaving me to help the family maintain Mom's old farmhouse, and manage her vast estate. In the process I was also busy breaking my collarbones and getting my head injuries stapled. You know, Parkinson's. So I hatched a plan (A safety plan you might call it). I did have a big old barn she could use to store her stuff. We had an adult son, Sean who was also between legally binding rental obligations. He said was willing to live there and keep an eye on the old farmhouse until we decided its final dispensation. We could all save money by combining resources, and if there was any help she could provide for me with possible difficult daily activities, all the better. Parkinson's, ya? Well we did a mutual benefit analysis and she's been here ever since. To make sure I take care of myself. Or help me herself if I cannot. Because she is a helper. Always look for the helpers, Mr. Rogers once said.
By the way, at Wally World yesterday for my hair appointment, I wore one of my nastiest pairs of jeans and my Reverend Horton Heat tee shirt with a baggy Carhartt hoody. I was sporting a 10 day beard and my hair, which was a good three weeks overdue for a cut, was uncombed and unkempt. I did indeed get the haircut I wanted, or at least deserved. She was right.
And they said it wouldn't last...
"The Whiffle"
Back in third grade things were a lot more simple. There were far fewer things to think about, and none were a source of any big worry, especially for a kid with the attention span of a small red squirrel. As long as I had the Big Bad Boston Bruins to draw pictures of, had my buzz bike with a cardboard baseball card stuck in the spokes, and had wide open suburban spaces to roam about, I'd be happy. I only remember getting called in from outside at supper time and bed time. Sure, school could get in the way, but ADHD made that seem to go by pretty fast. And in the summer, well, the glorious summer, me and all the other little lost boys of Pleasant Circle were formally put outside, set feral, like some pastoral beasts let loose to the upper summer grasslands, We never spent any significant time indoors during summer, which was exactly the way we AND our mums wanted it. We were given some money for the ice cream man and some scraps of food were left out for us on the front steps. At the end of the day we were hosed off and thrown into our evening duds just before bed. Or so it seemed. That's the way I remember it anyway. I would like to think it was kind of like that. In any case, the hair style to facilitate this seasonal life-style was a neat little haircut called 'the Whiffle'. The Whiffle was administered soon after school was let out for the year. Mom would take you to the Barber, he would set his electric shears to the shortest setting and buzz: all extraneous hair is gone. Easier to wash out dirt or wads of bubble gum and much easier to apply first aid and sutures. We ran the streets up to, but never past, Pleasant St., never crossed over the main street to the Dean S. Luce School, and greater civilization. We swam at the Reservoir's beach/swim front. We chased the ice cream man with fistfulls of coins. We played street hockey. We rode like the wind on our Huffy Buzz bikes (with the Cruiser handle bars and wheelie bars, of course). We counted down the days as summer passed. Our 'Whiffles' kept growing longer, measuring the waning days, and when the time came for another haircut it was time for school again.
Ah, the freedom of a 'whiffle', as the summer breeze blew through your bristly little scalp.
"The Senior Yearbook Horror"
There's not too much left of the old Nokomis High School here in Newport Maine. The long covered walk ways that led to the school. The student 'smoking' area outside the main entrance (expertly negotiated by the student counsel for scheduled smoke breaks. I shit you not. A high school with a student smoking area) The gymnasium, the classrooms, cafeteria, all gone. All that is left of the entire set of buildings is the shop areas, class rooms for wood working, auto mechanics, and graphics and photography. This was where I used to skip gym class, hide out in the darkroom and develop pictures of my high school rock band. This
was also home of the Driver's Ed, where Mr. Hanson saw me walking around in town Newport while he was out with his new drivers. The bastard turned me in and I got the only detention of my high school career. So anyway, the whole of the Voc. Ed department now is a work space for the new maintenance department of the new Nokomis High, a state of the art scholastic megalopolis across the street.
So all those precious memories of high school printed out in my 1981 Warrior yearbook are gone. Saved in fading pictures from decades ago. 'Booger' goofing with the boys by the water fountain by the cafeteria. Pictures of the varsity basketball team in the gym. Cheerleaders practicing in the lobby outside the Guidance counselor's office. A picture of Myk K, Dana and me, arms full of school books walking into school, through the smoking area. And ah, the 'coat people'. Faded denim jackets over hooded sweatshirts, stinking of weed and Marlboro 100's. ''Nerrrr! Loser! Vex me no more, tired loser".
But as rare as the forgotten places and scenes of yore, captured in fading black and white pictures, lost to time, is THIS: On page 46 there is your senior picture, and on your head is the very worst haircut anyone has ever worn out in public. It is an abomination that is a cross between Greg Brady, Bobby Sherman and every member of Pink Floyd. It is out of style in any generation and the only saving grace is that you and your hair were never spotted by a cell phone camera. Dude, who told you sideburns? That style, which you probably got while dressed to the nines, envisioning a much better look, is lost, like the fading yearbook pictures, to the mists of time. Thank F****** Heavens!
"The 'Rick Astley' or ''Reverse Mullet''.
Rick Astley is a lot of things, good and bad, but I know he's definitely the type of guy who's absolutely never, ever, never gonna:
2. Let you down
3. Run around and desert you 4. Make you cry 5. Say goodbye
6. Tell a lie and hurt you.
Anybody can claim they rocked a Mullet back in their indiscreet younger days. It was the 80's. Things got a little crazy. I was in my 20's, burning through the 80's like I had a borrowed liver. Good times. Salad Days. Heady times indeed. In Hollywood the Mullet was all the rage. All the big stars were known to have rocked the mullet at one time or another. John Stamos, Billy Ray Cyrus, Woody Harrelson. George Clooney even snuck a little mullet in on us. Eddie Murphy for God's sake. Dolly Parton, the queen of country music, had a mullet. Of sorts.
Me, I took a different path. Where Stamos zigged, I zagged. When they partied in the back, I moved my coiffure party to the front, putting the business where it belonged, in the rear view. I went with the "Rick Astley". Done expertly by my aunt Mary Ann, a fine hair stylist in her own right, who piled my hair in a big swoop in the front and trimmed it up tightly and succinctly in the back. The change in proprioceptive balance from the redistributed follicular weight gave you just the wobbly swag necessary to do the little vestibular wiggle to do the 'Astley' dance from his iconic video. Many was the night, when I'd sashay into the Bounty Tavern, a Glenlivet Rusty Nail in my mitt, 'Rick-Ruled' hair piled high, doing a little Brit Pop wiggle and made my way to the dance floor.
"Never gonna give, never gonna give, never gonna giiiiiive you up''...
But that was then.
This is now.
Currently I am rocking the world's most non-descript Wal-Mart special haircut, no offence intended toward the lovely, polite girl at SmartStyles. She did a good enough job. And I'm not likely to even comb it too many times before I go back and have her cut it again. I've got other fish to fry, so to speak. And like I said, you can't diminish something this dangerously handsome and unquestionably manly. It'll look fine with a baseball hat on it.
True, it was not the 'look' I had 'envisioned' when I left for the 'salon' yesterday morning. But to be fair I didn't really bother to put my 'best foot forward' or really do too much 'envisioning' either.
It may not be the look I wanted, but it is the look I probably deserved. I gave Tiffany a tenner for a tip, because I was grateful. I felt gratitude. I've got to work on that more. Fostering that attitude.
An attitude of gratitude....no wait. That sounds like some sort of Micheal J. Fox quote.
Anyway. I am grateful for Tiffany. Grateful for my little Froggy, who finished my shopping list and kept me company. Grateful for the Big Unit living in my old childhood home. Good to know h e's over there in the bullpen in case I go down some stairs unexpectedly. Grateful to their mom, who stepped up and volunteered to come over here to stay and help me out instead of whistling and looking at her shoes when the subject came up. Or maybe she just drew the short straw. In either case I'm grateful.
Right now I am grateful anyway. It's much harder to radiate such appreciation and equanimity
when you've spilled your coffee trying to walk across the kitchen or have fallen down for the 10th time that day, trying to put your socks on. And someone is offering to help you up, but you are on the floor stomping and ranting like an x-rated Yosemite Sam with Tourrettes.
Be grateful. Accept the help. And try not to be an ass about it.
Look for the helpers.
"mmmm...maybe I should grow a Goatee..."
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