On the Lighter Side

Though I've been mistaken for gay by more than a handful of women I fully intended on sleeping with (even some I actually did sleep with, and one I am sleeping with), and called metrosexual by a disappointing number of coworkers, I do not spend a lot of time preening in front of mirrors. That's not to say I consider myself some kind of au-natural Adonis (said tapping the burgeoning beer gut), just that I occasionally have decent hair. In fact, I've had the same haircut for upwards of 20 years; every now and then it's inevitably in style.

Recently Gertie suggested I spend more than $9 on a haircut and treat myself to a salon experience. I had been reluctant for some time. I am far too easily lured into spending money I shouldn't; a former girlfriend had me try on a pair of designer jeans once and two years later the value of my collection is on par with my car. But, with a soon-to-expire gift certificate to a male-friendly salon burning a hole in my pocket, I decided to give it a whirl.

Located in Virginia Highlands, I had an idea of what to expect. A well-appointed space lined with mahogany paneling. Flat screen TVs playing sports and the Godfather on a continual loop. Tastefully, yet scantily-clad hairdressers fussing over men in loafers.

I got the mahogany part wrong.

My hairdresser was a well-coiffed, pleasant young woman who greeted me with a handshake, a drink, and a shoulder rub. Thirty seconds into the experience and I was hooked. Normally I give the Supercuts people a three page manual on cropping the doo, but I had decided on the way over to give the professionals full creative liberty. "You can do whatever you want with my ha...," I stammered, as her hands moved up my shoulders, on to my neck, finally settling on my attention-deprived scalp. The massage lasted a full five minutes and left me drunkenly relaxed and possibly semi-erect. Then she grilled me about what I was looking for in a haircut, and offered suggestions on both short-term and long-term strategies. This was hard to articulate as my permanent strategy on hair is simply to not look like a brillo pad.

When we decided on an approach - equal parts non-whiffle David Beckham combined with scruffy-period Brad Pitt, I was ushered to a supple leather chair for a hair washing. First a soaking and rub down in warm water. Then, a vigorous lathering with massage. And last, a conditioning followed immediately by a cold water rinse. Top it off with a hot towel on the face and I was ready to propose. Right after my nap.

The cutting was next. Though I'd seen it in movies, I don't recall ever experiencing the sensation of scissors so close to my head; normally it is the exclusive domain of #3 electric razors. It was slow, methodical and quite relaxing. Between small talk about the city and men's fashion trends, I caught some of the finer moments of Godfather II, like when Michael Corleone belligerently testifies before Congress and uses the word "besmirch." Good stuff.

After, she rinsed my hair one final time and put her final touches on its styling, showing me how to replicate the procedure myself. Almost as soon as I left I felt my hair getting all terminator on me, mutating back into what it has always been, like a dog coming home after a night fucking the lab next door - happy, hungry and ready to lay on the sofa.

I'm a convert.

Grandmother's Eulogy Excerpts

I wrote this for my grandmother's funeral yesterday. It was difficult to write, because so many of my recent memories of her happened after Alzheimer's had robbed her of last years:

"If we had all day, there are a hundred different things I would say about my grandmother to give you a glimpse of what it was like to grow up in her presence. I would tell you about her subtle grace in passing along some of life’s hardest truths sandwiched between a knowing wink and an ear-to-ear smile. I’d tell you the ways she showed me more in a handful of years about the joy of a lifetime of sacrifice than I could hope for in my own lifetime.

If we had all day, I’d tell you how as a child of the Great Depression she knew the value of a dollar, or, as a VA nurse, the price of freedom. We could talk about my grandmother the activist; no cause too small, no opponent too large.

But while those traits may be the hallmarks of her legacy, talking about them wouldn’t be what she wanted. In fact, if my grandmother heard even an inkling of that she would surely reach for the mute button just like she did every time a commercial came on TV. 'Rubbish,' she’d say. Like clothes in any colors other than red, white, or blue, grandiosity did not suit her."

Then I told the squirrel story posted here.

"You’re probably wondering just why she’d want me to tell you that story. After all, maiming small rodents isn’t the stuff of eulogies. The reason is because of her many marvelous traits, her sense of humor was my favorite. When she first moved to the South and I had the privilege of getting to know her as an adult, we laughed about that particular moment until I was worried she’d keel over. Memere had a laugh that would be embarrassing for those around her if it weren’t so utterly genuine. It was the kind of laugh that makes others laugh, even when they don’t know what they are laughing about.

I still hear it when I see parents playing in the pool with their children and I remember how hard she laughed when the men in the family would team up to throw Uncle Richard in the pool.

It’s a laughter I hear every time I play cards with my family and remember how long it took us to get through a simple game of hearts because she’d be laughing so uncontrollably.

It’s a laughter I hear when I tease my mother about how hard I had it growing up and she laughs. Just like memere used to when mom did the same thing to her.

Twenty-five years later and thousands of miles away from Billerica, Massachusetts, we gathered around her bedside and remembered the squirrels. And though her pneumonia-riddled lungs made it impossible for her do the same, I know inside she was laughing just as hard as we were.

While that laughter is quiet now, here at least, it is as loud to me as every memory I have of her. I hope all of you had the opportunity to hear it; and that each of you will find your own way to remember it."

Life Changes

One of the most vivid memories I have of my grandmother is the final salvo in her war against squirrels. An avid birdwatcher, she had for years sought the perfect way to feed birds without fattening the local squirrels. When standalone birdfeeders didn’t work she’d suspended them from fishing line strung some thirty feet between neighboring trees. She would periodically trap squirrels and release them miles away. “They’re like dogs,” she’d explained to me when they’d invariably resume the onslaught, “they know where home is.” Convinced she recognized several that had found their way back to the promised land, she had my grandfather drown one unlucky rodent in some kind of bizarre statement. Nothing worked.

One summer day I was playing in her backyard and heard a thump, turned and saw a squirrel in its death throes on the ground next to me. I had read about when it rained frogs in Pharaoh’s Egypt and ran for cover to the nearby porch. My grandmother was there holding what looked like an assault rifle with a small plume of smoke escaping the barrel. It was the last time she’d ever kill one; my grandfather – racked with guilt for his complicity in the squirrel drowning – intentionally misaligned the scope to save the squirrels of Billerica, Massachusetts.

Fast forward twenty-five years and I am sitting at her bedside in a hospice in south Atlanta. She is 87, has lungs riddled with pneumonia, and is 5 years into Alzheimer’s. She will die soon.

I am surprised to find her hair soft to the touch. They bathe her daily. While her skin is old and frail, her still feminine hands belie her condition. Her nails are painted and her fingers still wear the rings she’s worn for decades. It is as though the life is exiting slowly, from her body, from her lungs, from her face, until only her hands can contain it. She clasps them together on occasion and rests them on her stomach. It suggests her essence, dignified independence.

Periodically she wakes, picking at her clothing, coughing, and mumbling incoherently, sometimes managing to swallow a few ice chips before drifting away. There are moments of lucidity, but longer periods of vacant stares and labored breathing. According to the pamphlet on dying on her nightstand, she has one foot in this world and one foot in another. It makes sense.

I don’t have much experience with dying. I was surprised to learn they really don’t feed you much in hospice. The dying body doesn’t need food. They say she prefers the room quiet, so as not to distract her from the process. She is reconciling her life, filling in the blanks, and coming to terms. It is utterly human.

In a nearby room a baby is crying. The disparity between one life ending and another beginning is oddly comforting. It is good to be reminded of the cycle of things.