February Sweeps - Day 17

There's not much I like about myself when I look in the mirror.

But I still have my hair, and that's always a bit of consolation to me.  I grew up hearing horror stories about my maternal grandfather looking like a Mister Potatohead Without A Hat On, and that, genetically, I was going to be like him.  I know my brother had these same fears, because, when he was about twenty, my mom asked what he wanted for Christmas, and he said, "Rogaine."*

I last got a haircut this past summer, and it was an awkward experience.  The lady at the bottom of the hill that I usually get to cut my hair was not in, but her daughter said she'd cut my hair, as long as I didn't mind she didn't speak English.  I told her I didn't mind, and sat down, but what I discovered is that I either didn't speak Spanish at all, or that what she was speaking was something entirely different.**  She kept saying things that I couldn't understand, but used incorrect Spanish grammar that I knew to be wrong, and I couldn't get my head around it (I've never known native-speakers to make mistakes in conjugation, and as far as I know, there's not a culture of intentional-misuse in that language like there is in English: it don't make you sound street to talk like a first year student).

What was more, the stuff I was getting from her was really overtly flirty, but she would mix her compliments with oddly-blunt criticisms, such as, "You really handsome boy, but shame you have so many pimples on neck."  It made me super uncomfortable, and that, along with the fact that she was having a conversation with me, and understood my awful Spanish, but I couldn't understand hers, made me not want to go back.

In June, I spent Father's Day with my Uncle Sam and his two sons.  It was a warm, touching experience, unlike any I ever had with my dad, and afterward, I told the story about the haircut to my cousins.  They were surprised.  "Don't you cut your own hair?" one asked.  "I never pay to get a haircut anymore," the other said.  Turns out, they just bought some clippers, and use them to cut their own.  I asked if that was hard, and Steven said, "Nahh, but I just shave my head each time."  It looked pretty good, and I thought that that's what I would do.

So, I got some clippers in July, and when my hair started to get long, I cut it myself.  I didn't shave it, exactly, but I cut it short, and thought, "Okay, I guess that's good enough."  I didn't realize, however, just how terrible it looked, until I saw my mom and she asked what I had done to my head.  So, that same day, I went into the bathroom, and just shaved it all down, Cousin Steven-style.

When I look back at photos of Self Haircut Number One, I shudder at how frankly horrific it looks, but you've got to understand: I've got no one to impress with my haircut.  Nobody except my mother is going to notice or comment if my hair looks good or bad, and part of me still says, "Then who the eff cares?  You go to school to learn, not for a fashion show."  But that was pre Midlife Crisis.

My Self Haircut Number Two looked better.  The shape of my head is an odd one, I suppose, and with all the hair gone, I guess I look more like Soong-type android, but again, absolutely nobody noticed or commented on how short I'd gone with it.

And the months passed.  My hair grows faster in warmer weather, so it wasn't until the New Year that I thought I needed a haircut again.  My mother complained about how long my hair was getting, even though I thought it looked fine (still do: if you see those first three Storage Unit Serenades, I think I could've waited another month), I thought it was time to get it cut again.  I contemplated what to do, whether to try Self Haircut Number Three, or go back to the salon after eight months.

Before

I went down the hill and looked in on the older woman who always cuts my hair.  She had two customers and told me to come back in one hour.  So I went to the park and ran up and down the stairs, then wrote in the car until the two guys left that salon (I was adding a new bit to "Three Time Visitor" about ghost breasts, which may or may not make the story better).

Well, she cut my hair fast with clippers, and then asked if I wanted her to put a little hell in it (as she always does, and never fails to amuse me--honestly, her asking me if I want a little hell is probably worth what little she charges whenever I come in), and I was done, ten minutes after going in there.  I would've preferred if she'd cut it shorter, but I get that, if she does that, I come in less often, and this is her livelihood.

After

Why am I typing all this?  Well, I guess 'cause it's President's Day, and I really don't want to do any work today.  I have some I can do, and I'm supposed to write, despite not wanting to, but it's nice to sit in my room for an hour and just feel no pressure (internal or external).  Plus, I took those two pictures, so I felt obligated to write about it.

And speaking of writing . . . the library was closed today, and oh boy(!), did I want to go there and write for the full two hour session. But it was a holiday (strangely, Big's kids had to go to school today, because Texas doesn't recognize Lincoln or Washington as presidents), and the library is closed.

I want to make a word or phrase that means "That feeling you get when you're stuck somewhere and you really want to create art . . . but only because you can't."  Maybe I'll call it Church Mused or something.  But I was super Church Mused, and I finally just took my laptop out to the car, grabbed a soda at the gas station (the friendly Sikh behind the counter stuck his fist out to me when I was about to pay, and I just stared at it blankly until I realized he wanted a fist bump), and then forced myself to write on this new story for a thousand words.

It came way easier than yesterday, and the trick was convincing myself that this would be a Horror story about the dissolution of a friendship rather than just an alien presence going after a girl I know and her friends.***  Nothing has really changed since yesterday, when I was on the fence about writing it, except for that now it's ABOUT something that I find interesting (can you truly be friends with someone again, or is it all destined to fall apart the second the pressure gets turned up?), which makes a difference somehow.

And tomorrow, the library's open!

Words Today: 1,381
Words Total: 23,502

*She actually got him some too, which was pretty funny.  And he didn't start to lose his hair for another twenty years, so maybe he actually used it.

**I've since learned that, yes, my Spanish has gotten quite bad, and it's something I've been working on in 2020.  Along with muscles in your arms and legs, your language muscles can atrophy just as much, but push-ups don't seem to improve them.

***Years ago, I got it into my head to write a story about two best friends who both work at Little Caesar's Pizza, and then a pretty girl is also hired, and both friends end up liking her . . . and their friendship completely falls apart.  I never wrote it, because I felt like the story had to be about something else, with the friendship as only a subplot, but I always regretted it, because the story was pretty poignant in my mind as I thought about best friends I've had that are totally out of my life nowadays.  And what's worse is, Big Anklevich wrote his own story set at Little Caesar's Pizza, and I never did.  I guess I could still write it . . . except I won't, and this story is thematically similar, and has murder in it.