The Quest for my Head

It’s time for another haircut. Three weeks ago was the first time I ever stepped into Tim’s Hairstyling for Men.
I’ve been trying out new barbers for a few months now … seeking the right artist to continue landscaping my head.
I can only remember as far back to when I was about 12 years old when my barber was “Charlie the barber”. He owned a shop right across the street; my dad got his hair cut at Charlie’s.
My fondest childhood memories include sitting in Charlie’s shop on top of a piece of padded wood, which firmly spanned the arms of the barber’s chair to bring me to a grown-up’s height. The shop smelled like hair tonic and cigarette smoke and Charlie always coughed so much from smoking I thought he was going to bring up a lung. Charlie was my barber until the Beatles made their debut on American television. I remember watching them and going to school the next day with my hair combed down in front of my eyes instead of the slicked back look I wore through most of grammar school. It was goodbye barber, hello stylist for the next 20 years.
I let my hair grow really long after turning 18. When I turned 20 and my hair fell past my shoulders, I had a traumatic experience; an army barber at Fort Jackson quickly shaved it all off. There were no mirrors there; I could only look down and watch my falling hair cover my feet. To this day I can’t look down at the clippings on the floor around the barber’s chair while I’m getting my haircut without reliving that frightful day.
It wasn’t until my mid thirties when I grew tired of the long hair.
That’s when the quest began.
I visited quite a few barbershops; seeking out a barber I could trust to handle my precious head. It really has been an adventure.
There was Tony the Barber who loved to gamble and once bet me he could cut my hair while only looking at me through the mirror. He shed blood from my left ear. I moved on.
I met Federico in the next shop I visited. He smoked cigars and apparently ate a lot of garlic. I couldn’t breathe. I moved on.
Mickey Scissors was a unique individual. Don’t call him Mickey. If you did, he would say, “Please, Mickey Scissors, call me Mickey Scissors”. Ironically, he would only use electric sheers when he cut hair. Really, he didn’t use scissors.
There was a stuttering barber named C-c-c-cleo who uncontrollably spit when he stuttered on P’s, a barber named Dave who always wore fatigues and used dull scissors … ”ouch, ouch again, ouch again, ouch”… and Frank the Barber who was so slow that my hair was growing faster than he could cut it.
“Paul the barber” cut my hair just the way I liked it and as a bonus he was one of the very few barbers that still used hot foam around the ears and nape of the neck, making the final trim using a straight edge razor. Unfortunately for me lots of other men were equally pleased and so I would find myself sometimes waiting up to two hours to get in his chair.
After almost two years visiting Paul’s shop it became just too inconvenient for me to wait and wait and wait. Anyway, now in my fifties, I have a lot less to work with on the top of my dome.
So the quest continues … Could Tim be “the one”?

Don't Have a Funambulistident

“Scratchident … An auto mishap caused by someone scratching a lottery scratch ticket while driving!”
I have come to really appreciate words and their (not the place) origins.
All through (not tossed) the ages (not how old people are) since man (meaning all humans) began to communicate, words have been continuously developing (not like film does).
The word “scratchident” has made me (not the note on the music scale) think that I’m probably not the only one with an interest (not what you pay the bank) in words.
So let me share a few of my thoughts on words.
“I’ll never be a … funambulist”
All words have a beginning, a reason for their existence. Some date (not the fruit) back centuries (not the Roman guards) others were formed last week (not the lack of strength). For instance … let’s take the word funambulist, surely you must be curious? This word refers to a tightrope walker (not what granny uses) or a rope dancer (not the reindeer). The word comes from the Latin funambulus which (not the scary woman) also meant the same back (not the spine) then. It’s a compound of funis “rope” and ambulare “to walk”. Now, wouldn’t you (not the sheep) agree it would be unfortunate to have a funambulistident (falling off the tight rope)?
Okay, I just made that up. But (not your backside), if you did you will (not the legal document) no doubt end up in an ambulance (meaning you can no longer walk)?
“I too, will not be forced to wear a two piece tu-tu.”
This brings me to another type (not what a secretary does) of word. The kind (not the attribute) of words that sound the same, are sometimes spelled (not cast by a witch) differently, have more than one (not the opposite of lost) meaning and often get me in trouble. We call this word a “homonym” from the Latin compound homo “same” and nym meaning “I don’t know … No, really … I don’t.” What I do know (not the opposite of yes) is that you better watch (not the timepiece) your homonyms. Like when I told Domenica (she’s my wife) she should be (not the insect) a little bear/bare for the costume party. (Bop!) Or when I suggest to her, I should have some brews/bruise … (Bop!) She gives me one on the head (not the toilet).
“A baseball player needs to run home to make a homerun.”
Putting (not the golf shot) words together can (not the container) also be fun, doing so (not the darn thing) we make up new words. Some (not the total) good examples of these are the results of mixing different breeds of dogs. For instance, mating a Pointer and a Setter we (not what we yell on a roller coaster) end up with a Pointsetter (a great Christmas pet). When we cross (not the anger) a Bloodhound and a Labrador we get a Blabador (a dog that barks a lot). Mixing a Collie and a Malamute produces a Commute (a dog that loves to travel). Lastly, when we bring together a Bull Terrier and a Shiatzu we of course (not the dinner serving) get Bullsh … (Bop!) … Never mind.
“Well (not the water source) … Enough about words …
My head hurts (not the Car Rental Company)!”

My Little Brown Friends

The temperature reached into the 70’s today.
Tomorrow is expected to be warmer.
It’s time for spring clean up.
Fall clean up didn’t go too well.
I was waiting for the trees in the backyard to drop their leaves.
They finally did … when it snowed.
I tried to time it right.
Of course, Mom nature just couldn’t wait another weekend.
Well, at least the leaves couldn’t find their way into the neighbors yard now. I always worried about that. They pay a landscaper to keep out my leaves. Sometimes they would sneak back over.
But, that was months ago. They’re still here in my yard. Waiting.
They look a bit crumpled and sad.
”Why, Joe, why? Why have you left us here so long?”, I swear I hear them asking.
I don’t know how to make it up to them.
I’m ashamed of myself for being so neglectful.
I watch in pain as the wind blows.
They struggle to get up to seek refuge in the neighbor’s (way too green) backyard.
But alas, they stay stuck in the dead grass I didn’t have a chance to mow … did I mentioned it snowed early last winter.
Once, during the winter, after a heavy snowfall, I fired up the snow blower to clear the usually walkways around the house.
While I blew the snow around, I thought of the poor leaves, smothered under all that snow, probably freezing, my toes were.
I veered off the path leading to the back porch stairs, then onto the back yard and it was awful. I think I killed some of them.
Most of them landed atop the fresh snow. Some mixed into the snow. Others got torn to shreds in my snow blower.
I’m not sure if anyone saw it happen. I looked around. No one was there.
I quickly covered them with handfuls of snow.
I occasionally have frozen leaf nightmares from the incident.
Last week the neighbor’s landscapers were back.
I was bringing in the rubbish barrels. I saw them pulling up in their truck. I hurried to get back into the house, trying not to make eye contact. Too late, I fell for it. They beeped the horn and I instinctively turned to wave.
I think they like me. I wonder why?
In the morning I will tend to the little squatters.
Today I bought two packages of those tall, brown paper, leaf bags.
My plan is to gather up my little brown friends and send them on a journey to the waste management incinerator for a proper disposal.
It's hard to live with myself, after what I put them through this harsh winter.
Will they ever forgive me?
I just hope it’s not too hot to work outside tomorrow.

My Brain Train

Over the past few days, I’ve been lacking my usual train of thought due to the battle that was going on in my stomach.
So feeling ill ... home from work ... making constant trips to the bathroom ... and with not much more to do … I decided to surf.
As I mentioned my train of thought was amiss.
I would have to concentrate or I could easily end up wandering aimlessly through hundreds of unrelated sequences of websites.
Right now, I’m hungry.
I’m hungry for knowledge.
I love learning “useless” or “unimportant” information.
Why don’t you come join me?
Follow me along a short path in my brain.
Let’s go for a ride on my (slightly off) “train of thought”.
Did you know that butterflies taste with their feet?
“Feet” led me to “body parts” … “body parts” to “ears” … “ears” to …
Did you know that Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear?
“van Gogh” led me to “art” … “art” to “painters” … “painters” to …
Did you know that Leonardo Da Vinci invented the parachute?
“Parachute” led me to “planes” … “planes” to “air travel” … “air travel” to …
Did you know that the word “stewardesses” is the longest word typed with only the left hand?
“Left hand” led me to …
Wait a minute!
I just had a piece of toast in my left hand a few minutes ago.
Oh yeah … I was going to get up and butter it.
Oh … that’s what made me think of “butterflies”.
Here’s the first stop. You better hop off now.

Discovering Badunkadunk

I sometimes worry about aging … but not so much these days.
For me, worrying about my age started soon after I turned 30. I was already married 10 years and had three children. I began to wonder…
Will I live to see my three daughters get married?
Will I ever live long enough to enjoy grandchildren?
Am I going to lose all the money I’ve contributed to Social Security?
In my mid 30’s I came the closest to death as I ever have.
(That I’m aware of, anyway.) It was an eye opener, but I believe in fate, I still had stuff to do. I guess that incident marked my “age worrying peak”.
My oldest children were just over 10 at that time. By the time they were in their late teens, I was feeling pretty good. But our age gap seemed to have grown … I needed to re-connect. I wanted to keep that gap close, be their buddy, and hang out with them. That’s when desperate times called for desperate measures.
Like the time I started wearing my jeans down really low and hiking my underwear up really high. This of course was to give me a new hip look. My 17-year-old didn’t think so. I couldn’t pull it off. I was still the shape of an apple.
I tried to experience new music. In doing so, I learned new definitions for familiar words like M & M, wrap and booty. I discovered a teen language, entering into my vocabulary new words like badunkadunk, bling-bling and boo-yah.
I even learned how to re-use old words like … well … “word".
It became crystal clear; I was a dad, not a dude.
Time marched on … our daughters married and we gained three great sons.
So, I reached 50 and honestly began worrying less about getting old. I’m happy to still be alive and healthy. And, whenever possible, I revisit my childhood by acting like a kid.
For instance, when at the supermarket, I still find it funny to drop odd items like jars of pickled pigs feet and mini-franks into other people’s carts.
My goal now, at 56, is to live with the least amount of stress possible … eat what my wife tells me to … take naps … and hang out with my grandchildren.
Hey! … How weird would it be anyway to reverse my aging now and how awful would it be to stop aging at all?
The following video will introduce you to a woman who is aging gracefully.
And with one my favorites from Cold Play … Enjoy!