Hair Cut

As the five of you who read this thing on a somewhat consistent basis know, I am losing my hair. Well, rather, let me not say that I am losing it, for that conveys a certain sense of carelessness. We could, if we wished to trip in the land of metaphorical imagery, say that it is fleeing from my head, follicle by follicle, as though my pate were Bosnia and my hairs were Serbian: I am going bald. I have chosen not to bemoan my fate, to try and avert it with potions and unguents, but to embrace it. For the past several years I have kept my hair short, sometimes very short, to sort of ease myself into the waters of my impending doom, I mean warm embrace of my new look. This time, I was supposed to get my head completely shaven. That’s right: smoother than a baby’s bottom. I did not, however, because of an unforeseen circumstance: my damn barber didn’t show up for work. It was quite the topic of discussion at the shop. The one woman (there always seems to be one at this fading bastion of masculinity, the barber shop) got a phone call from the other gal that works there (I know that makes two, but they don’t usually work on the same days) who said that Patrick (my barber and subject of my unrequited crush) did not come home last night, and then her boyfriend said something to her about not getting involved in Patrick’s business. Then the first woman said something about maybe Patrick had been on a date with a good woman. The one barber who ultimately cut my hair yesterday said, scornfully, “What woman?” That gave me a moment of pause: I had always thought one of the other guys was kinda queer (I’m sorry: you just don’t wear an earring with a diamond the size of my pinky nail in your right ear without being at least a little suspect), but did that mean that Patrick practiced the love that dare not speak its name? Does he like boys (not in the Michael Jackson way)? Did I even care? I thought about it for a while, since the line was long and the old man who came in after me decided that he should get served before I did (side note: I was reading the Dhammapada on my Palm and happened across the verse “Desire never crosses the path of virtuous wakeful men. Their brightness sets them free.” and decided to allow my desire for “fairness” to arise and fall away. Okay, so I also said to myself, “Well, the old bastard has less time left on earth than I probably do: I’d be in a hurry, too.”). Anyway, I realized that I no longer have a crush on Patrick. He is obviously irresponsible, the last time he cut my hair he smelled of stale beer, and it doesn’t matter if he likes boys or not: I don’t like him. Now, if only I can figure out some way to scrape off the “Patrick call ***-**** for the best bj of your life” from the barber shop bathroom wall…