A MEMORY TO BE SHARED

THE BARBERSHOP

I’m a not-so-old guy who grew up in the 50’s and 60’s (20^th century) and have seen a thing or two (to borrow a phrase from a TV ad) between then and now. I am not going into the big changes or “the good old days”. I just want to talk about haircuts. I don’t remember my first time getting the hair out of my eyes, nor do I remember much about it before I was 5 or 6. Then, Mom’s boyfriend’s friend convinced her to let him cut my red locks into a manly flat top. For a red head, a flat top is the worst haircut there is. It allows the sun to penetrate to the skin of one’s pate and the tender tips of your ears. A ball cap covers your noggin, but leaves your ears exposed. Scabby, sun-burnt ears, are not a fun summer in my mind. I had a flat-top haircut until the British invasion (The Beatles) on The Ed Sullivan Show. Then like a regular teen lemming, I pursued long hair to be like them. I wasn’t always successful and the last flat-top haircut I received was in the summer of my fifteenth year when I went to work on a dude ranch in Wyoming (in the thin air of 8000 ft elevation) and despite the broad brimmed cowboy hat Dad purchased for me, my ears were burnt to a crisp within three days.

The reason I am telling you this is that I usually didn’t go to a barber shop to get sheared, but to my Dad’s buddies kitchen or garage (depending on the air temperature) for my regular trim. When not able to get one there Dad took me to the local (DPG) barber whose specialty was a buzzed head for soldiers on the Army base where we lived. After the Brits made their inroads on the Barbering business here in the USA, the local guy did his best to modify his specialty into a “Beatle cut”. Not always successfully, I might add. But his barbershop was like every other in America, Old men with a tufty, silvery fringe, middle-aged middle managers with their “Mad Man” regular hair cuts, soldiers waiting for the buzz of close clippers, and teens/kids for whatever Dad said we could have. All waiting their turn in The Chair, swiveling, reclining, chrome plated, leather or vinyl upholstery, unforgettable. There was an aroma of light oil on warm clipper blades, stale tobacco, buttery shaving cream, and the ever-present odor of Eau de Toilette (toilet water in common speech and lore). There are more memories in a barbershop to be spoken of later.

Then, it all collapsed, the Brits had toppled a whole industry and we men were relegated to the local Hair Salon with our moms, wives, sisters and little girls to wait our turn reading Cosmo, Elle, and Teen magazines, sitting in dismay among the gossip about nursing, pregnancies, and lousy boyfriends/husbands instead of hunting, fishing, and sports stories. Hanging our heads while trying not to inhale the sour smell of Perm solutions, dyes, and over heated, air-blown up do’s. After all, John Travolta traded in the barbershop for a salon in a “Disco Fever” up there on the big screen. For me, that continued pretty much regularly/infrequently until last year when I traded that for some start-up barbering establishments locally. But I still had to explain what a ‘regular’ haircut was to barbers who were churning out the “Paul Bunyon” look to hipsters.

Six months ago, I stopped into a new shop in town called ‘Black Cat Barbering Co.’ taking a chance that this would be the place. It was, The Chair was there, aroma of light oil on warm clipper blades, even the toilet water. The first time in there, Kevin and I talked about books, and music (Johnny Cash, Kris, Waylon, The Beatles, Maroon 5, Three Doors Down, you get the drift) and barbering as a cultural experience that every guy should have. If you’re a guy that hasn’t had the back of your neck prepped with a hot, wet towel and the buttery warm shaving cream to be shaved with a straight razor, and toilet water splashed over the newly shaved skin, then, well, you need to do it at least once. When the barber is done with all that he turns you to face the mirror and asks if everything is ok, and you nod yes, then he  brushes any loose hairs onto the cape that protects your clothes and with a bit of drama, he flourishes that cape, shaking the cut hair onto the floor. You get up, reach for your wallet and go to the counter and pay, adding a tip, the amount depends on your style and satisfaction.

I had forgotten what a treat a real haircut at the barbershop was until stopping into the Black Cat Barbering Co. Today, Fernando and I talked about growing herbs and vegetables, Bonsai trees and food.  Chili Rellenos, squash blossom quesadillas, The Red Iguana, the Blue Iguana and some joint in West Valley that has the best ramen. I came out of there with a haircut like my middle grandson, short on the sides, and longish, floppy on top. Relax, it’s a regular haircut, not a hipster ‘do’ like his.

I just have to leave you with this: the barbershop where you can smell the odors of male grooming, talk about guy stuff, read Outdoor Life, have your hair cut not styled, and just be you, no posing necessary.  Try it, I bet you’ll like it.

Passion can eat you up

 

Passion is a funny thing, it can inspire you or it can eat you up. When we have a thought or idea that strikes our fancy, we tend to focus on it and maybe focus to the point of obsession. Why do we do that? 
I think it is because our minds are not challenged enough in our day-to-day lives/survival to objectively view the world around us. In this current political arena, both sides of the fence claim to speak the facts or truth, when obviously in most cases or issues, there is no hard right and wrong answer. There are hard boundaries however. 
In a more primitive world, politics had a direct impact on individuals and families. Oppose the tribal chief, you are dead or exiled with your whole family. If you supported the right guy (the strongest, or the smartest) then you and your family might flourish. In today’s world, politics are less direct and more oblique. 
Obviously, in this country at least, voting for the most popular or least popular isn’t gonna get you dead or exiled. At some point it may affect your well-being or status, but some of that is on the individual for the subsequent choices and actions. And long term consequences of your politics can & do impact you and yours (i.e. tariffs on agricultural products impacting the same demographic that voted for the prez). 
In short, going back to passion; why do we care so much? Is it a pride thing? “I have an idea, it’s mine and no one can make me change my mind!” Could it be the ‘blue dress/gold dress’ brouhaha? Are we really wired that much different that we see the same thing(s) as something totally opposite? Our nervous systems are virtually the same, our blood is somewhat interchangeable, another person can use my spare kidney and other parts of my body, but they can’t share my thoughts, ideas, beliefs, courage, cowardice, pleasures or pain…those are mine. 

And yours are yours. 

"I've done my damnedest to stir the pot today...I could've done better"

Mike

They that sow the wind, shall reap the whirlwind...

Hosea 8:7 

Life is different except when it is the same

IF YOU HAVE READ THE PREVIOUS POSTS, THEN...

As I am working on rebranding this blog and the other one that I haphazardly post to, I read the last post on this site. Isn't it something that nothing has changed for the better since I first wrote it. Except that after a tumultuous year (2017) both in my private life and the public place, I have somewhat reformed my FB habits. I am much more careful about the amount of snark that I reply to on other folks' political quips.

I have found that the application of law and order, right and wrong, morality/immorality is highly dependent on peoples political/religious affiliation, ethnic sensitivity, or xenophobic behavior. Simply said, if you are a white republican (democrats are guilty too) then you could shoot someone on the street (5th Ave [sic]) and still have their support. Another example is, if you stage an armed revolt over grazing rights, then you are a patriot freedom fighter, but if you march for equal protection under the law and call for #blacklivesmatter too, then you should be jailed or shot down (ala Ted Nugent). Nice huh? "What a fine mess we have here, Stan!" "Ooooh, Ollie..."

The ruling class, worldwide, has convinced us poor working stiffs that what is good for them is good for the world, no matter what it does to us or the poor. A recent meme that compared equality with slavery has finally cleared up the problem or the question for me. That is, what do words mean? Are they meaningless (having so many conflicting meanings as to render them only as page art) or do they really depict what the writer intended? 

Is equality just a flowery calligraphy exhibit in our founding documents, our laws? Or is it a curse for us to only use for our own purposes, an ideal to never achieve in our wildest aspirations? 

The love of money is the root of all evil. That evil drives us to achieve what we will never achieve. It is that love that the ruling class uses to enslave us at their wage labor by convincing us that inequality is not slavery, that we too can become like them if only we will keep our nose to their grindstone. I'm afraid my nose has been ground off. I will never be like them (Thank my Lord and Savior for that). I will shed real tears when I see my peers trying to run that race on a spinning wheel just like a hamster in a cage. 

If you watch the hands and listen to the blather, instead of paying attention to the walnut shells, you'll never find the pea. And then the game is lost.