Sorry I have been absentee for a bit, turns out unemployment is real kicker. But I figure, hey, if I can be happy without any income or anything to do for eight hours in the day then I will be just fine in life. So, I’m still plugging away at this bliss thing and now I’m looking for it in all of the least likely places, but perhaps that is where happiness is the most abundant. They do say, happiness isn’t having what you want but rather wanting what you have. This sure as hell isn’t what I expected but by golly it’s what I got to work with.
I have a plethora of happenings to share. Turns out Ethan isn’t just an “idea” or figment of my imagination. I was feeling rather awake last night, at 3 a.m., and decided to check out the online personals. There, in a black and white photo, he was. His hair flowing and pearly white teeth. For the moment, I thought it pure luck but then I remembered, “He is just a reflection, one you have abandoned, and now you must resume with your own ideal.” In reality, I met him at a bar. He looked sad, was obviously uninterested, and ran away mysteriously when the night ended. It ended there, so I kept browsing.
I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. Then this happened,
I took E to get a haircut this past weekend. Somewhere along the way I decide to try a new adventure—barbering school. It was one of those ingenious light bulb moments, as soon as I saw it, aha perfect. Mostly because the ad read five bucks and I was being cheap. As soon as we pushed through the revolving door I began to fearfully contemplate my previous ingenuity. We were the only Caucasian people in the entire garage-like shop. Everywhere I look, all I see, CLIPPERS! It was like one of those cheesy horror films where the girl looks from left to right to left, no escape, and then she screams.
My usual haircut order goes a little something like this,
“Scissors ONLY, not too short on the sides, about an inch off the top and clean it up around the edge—keep the sideburns. Absolutely no clippers, none.” Then I stand by nervously, invading the stylists personal space, while I give her careful instruction throughout. In no time at all, she grabs the hair between her fingers, looks at me, “is this okay to cut?” It’s true, I am feverishly neurotic about my child’s monthly haircuts.
Back to the cultural barbershop,
We approach the register and the lady informs me of their, “no card” policy, but not to worry that I can go get some money at the Dollar Tree two shops down. If I don’t die on the way. I failed to mentioned that it took a thirty minute trip into the ghetto to reach this detination five dollar barbershop. We leave and head to Dollar Tree. After twenty minutes in line, waiting for our cash dispenser, I suddenly realize we’re going nowhere. Looking ahead I spot a man pointing his fingers in an upward motion, then downward, he starts singing, stops, jumps backward, and lets out a huge “Ahhhhh Gotcha,” finger wink included. It took me awhile, but finally I recognize his behavior as delusional. That day all Dollar Tree customers got a cartful of cheap shit and a Ray Charles reenactment. After another twenty minutes and an entire scene he pays the cashier, slowly we move ahead. The man in front of us must have felt sorry for E having to wait because he slipped him a dollar bill on the way out.
Making it back to the barbershop I provide payment, after which a woman inquires what I would like (see above). She shoots a look of dismay and finally grunts, “I think I can do it.” This scares me. My little E has the most precious blond locks, but his hair is fine, and ah chop chop is an easy look for someone lacking Caucasian hair expertise.
Thirty minutes and three barbers later five chunks are missing, and it looks like someone took a weedwacker to my kid’s head. I respectfully request a refund and they scoot us out the door, quickly suggesting a salon across the way. They were quite happy to see us go–as were we to be going. At this point, I am running across the parking lot happy to pay for any overpriced haircut. Thankfully, Suzie knows what she is doing and produces a decent fix. It was the first time in four years of haircuts that I sat peacefully in the waiting area. It was while I was doing this that I noticed an older woman in the corner. She had bruises and sores covering her body complete with a chin full of hair–I bet she’d seen better days. Then I began to pity her, imagining her life.
“That poor woman probably sits in a nursing home all day. I bet her kids never visit her. I mean if I was her kid I would at the very least take her to get a chinny wax. This is probably the highlight of her week, getting her hair washed.”
I felt so utterly dismayed for this woman. Then in he came, an older man. He touched her shoulder softly and bent down to whisper in her ear. He was gentle with her and it was quite obvious that he was her her husband. He then handed her some cash (as all husbands should do). My despair for her dissipated.
This love obviously began during the innocent years of beauty, yet here it was, still, in the tender end. Living on. Everyone hopes they find that. The kind of love that lasts through bed sores, sagging tattoos, heck even chin hair!
I’m glad I let go that day, relinquishing my haircut neurosis, because it let me see something I might not have otherwise. I think from now on I’ll find happiness in being a little less compulsive. It allows you to envelop life, that’s a great thing.