Haircut

I got a haircut today. I donated eight inches of hair to Locks of Love. The girl sat me in the chair, pulled my hair back into a tail and said, “Oh, look. I can take a good eight inches!” and I wanted so badly to make a terrible and hilarious comment, but I didn’t want to get stabbed in the face with the scissors. There was also a part of me that was scared that she might call my bluff, and then she’d discover that I didn’t have eight inches to give. Beyond all of that, I wanted to be able to come back and get another haircut in two years. So I didn’t say anything. She took eight inches of hair, and I’ve still got sufficient length to wear the remainder in a ponytail. It’s convenient that way. I don’t have time in my life for high maintenance hairstyles, or anything that will require a haircut more often that once every two years. I donate my hair, not because I’m nice, but because it’s a free haircut once every two years. This is the second time I’ve donated my hair. It’s always a remarkable feeling, getting all that hair removed. It’s a relief, kind of like a big bowel movement. It feels good, and for a while it allows me to believe that I don’t look like a caveman.

An Open Letter

It’s a mistake that we forgive the ignorant beliefs of the elderly. The excuse that they are a product of a different time is a poor one at best. There’s no excuse for bigotry. It doesn’t matter how educated or uneducated they might be. It doesn’t matter what historic catastrophe they’ve endured or how many years of manual labor they’ve contributed to humanity. Ethnic hatred is a crown exclusively for living, breathing pieces of shit. It doesn’t matter where they’re from.

I’m glad you’re 85. You will be dead soon, and the world will be a better, cleaner, more beautiful place in your absence.

The Sidewalk

Everything on the sidewalk is old and decrepit. The sidewalk itself, the people on it, the bus stop, the street signs, the telephone poles, and the rusty metal fence are all old and decrepit. The rusty metal fence is remarkably rusty, but only halfway. It’s rusty from the bottom up. Like there was a great pool of rust on the road, and a big truck drove by and splashed it up on the fence. The top of the fence is also beginning to corrode. It is, however, still partially painted green. It’s failing green paint, spattered with rust. Big chunks of the sidewalk have broken off and chipped away. In many places you can see the metal rebar that reinforces the concrete. It too is rusted, and looks like opened veins bleeding their contents out into the surrounding tissue. This sidewalk reminds me that one day I will die. So will everybody else on it.

My Nonno

There was an old guy at the gym who looked exactly like my Nonno. At least he looked like my Nonno did about 20 years ago, when he was still around, before he got sick. He was the same height and build. He had the same crew cut and slight accent, and he had the same distinct smell of coffee and Aqua Velva that you could detect from 20 feet away. I secretly hoped that he’d have some trouble with the treadmill he was using and start cursing at it loudly in Italian. He didn’t. I secretly wanted to go over to him and ask him to talk to me about working down at the steel mill. I didn’t. I also secretly wanted the weights to lift themselves, so I could sit and think in peace. They didn’t.

Drunk Grandmas

At the next table sat three round, grandmotherly-looking older women. Not ancient, but substantially over 50. They were talking about their retirement plans. They were talking about their professional lives and careers. They were clearly all educated and well-paid. They were talking about their kids who were graduating from college, now looking for work. The conversation led into their kids’ relationships. They were very frank about it all. Who their kids were involved with, and for what reasons. It was funny to hear. Then that lead into stories about their own sex lives from when they were younger. Speaking loudly, they may have been slightly drunk. They were all very happy to have been the right age during that ten-year gap between the advent of the birth control pill and AIDS. Apparently, everybody got very laid back then. One of them used to routinely fuck the painter that was repainting her house. All night long and very well, from what I heard. The other was twice divorced, and one of her ex-husbands was very proud of how well he knew how to use his tongue. She was recently fired from her job, and enjoying the unemployment checks. Right on! I know what that’s about. The other woman laughed quite a bit, and only contributed occasionally, but mostly tried to quiet down the other two.