Same Ponytail

I bought a magazine. It had Nick Cave on the front, and short interviews featuring Lemmy Kilmister, Lou Reed, and Leonard Cohen. I couldn’t pass that up, too many cool people. I don’t write half as well as any one of those guys, but I like to try. There was also a free CD attached. It contained nothing that interested me, and probably constituted a reasonable portion of the $10 price of the magazine. But…fuck it. I’m stupid and impulsive. The cashier at the register was beautiful. She was probably in her early 20s. She appeared to be one of those punker girls who is going for the ironic 1950s housewife look. Horn-rimmed glasses sat atop her nose. Short bangs fell upon her forehead, with a ponytail in the back sticking up. A very conservative and concealing dress hung over her. Bright red lipstick framed a giant Cheshire cat smile. She was an abso-fucking-lutely stunning girl, with all kinds of cool tattoos peaking out from underneath her clothes. She told me the total. I gave her my credit card. The signature on back was almost completely worn off, so she asked for a photo ID. I produced my driver’s license quickly and handed it to her. She smiled again, looked at it and back at me. I smiled back and said, “Same ponytail.” At which point she laughed out loud, covering her mouth demurely, and replied, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Then I said, “Yeah, if I ever get a haircut, I’ll be fucked. Never be able to use that credit card again.” And smiled. She laughed again, and said, “Oh, no!” with a gentle sort of amused faux-sympathy. I wished her a good night, and she returned the well-wishing with a big smile. I’ll probably never read the magazine.

Big Baby

There is one particular bookstore at the end of the Southside that my wife and I frequent for its bathrooms. It’s a great place to relieve yourself on a Saturday afternoon or early evening. Yesterday, I was in the men’s room in a stall. Things were going well, in a normal and predictable turn of events. Then I heard the door open. Two people entered. One was silent and the other was obviously a child. The child was dancing around anxiously and whining. At this point I realized that there were only two stalls. I was in one, and the other was out of order. The kid probably had to shit and was waiting for my stall to open. I tried my best to accelerate things, moving as quickly as possible. If I’m ever the cause of some little kid shitting his pants, I’ll have to go home and hang myself with piano wire, like a war criminal. He started really whimpering, and I restrained myself from apologizing and coaching the kid. “Sorry kid. I’m hurrying. It’ll just be a second. I’ll be right out. Hang in there!” I finished everything reasonably well, flushed and got out. The door opened and I could see the kid and his silent escort. They were two little black kids. The small, whimpering one was about four or five. His silent escort appeared to be his older brother, who was about ten. They went into the stall as quickly as I had exited. While I was washing my hands, I heard them talking and struggling to get situated. They neglected to close the door. The older kid said, “There you go, big baby!” I dried my hands, smiled, left, and thought about giving my little brother a call.

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.