Jan. 23, 2006 - 20:50 MST

OR NOT TO CUT

Dust bunnies of time gather round my ankles now and then. My mind did a quick lifetime run through on the subject of hair.

My first memories of hair cuts were hearing my Dad tell my Mom, "His hair is flopping in his eyes again." Which would be followed by him taking me to the barber shop and giving the barber strict instructions on how very close he wanted it cut. I didn't dare become defiant and as his haircuts were close to the bone also, I could see it was not a subject that would bear discussion.

So once I asked my Mom why couldn't I have bangs like the girls did, and then my hair wouldn't flop into my eyes. That eye flopping bit was easily cured by me by a toss of the head, and didn't bother me. Mom said, "Your Daddy will think you are a sissy if you ask him for a haircut like that."

As time went on Dad did give me a bit of leeway and my hair got a bit longer, but at about so long he would tell me, "Better get a haircut." Then I got out of high school and went to work, those folks I worked with, the men all had fairly close haircuts and I lived with that convention.

Time oozed on, I got married and the onus was on Heather then. She came from a conventional family, her Mom very straightlaced woman and was very much against facial hair or long hair. So I lived with it.

Time raced on, we were raising the last of our kids and I got a job at a job-shop machine shop where our son in law worked. He, our daughter and their kids were living cater-corner from us in a fourplex where we lived. He had a handlebar mustache and a goatee and as I got in step with the people at work and seeing that all the men in the shop had beards, mustaches and long hair in one form or another. All except Charlie a night foreman whose curly hair was cut close to the skull. Before very long my hair was to my shoulders, my beard almost to my chest and a pretty good sized handlebar mustache graced my upper lip.

Hog heaven that is where I was during that time. Enjoyed the work, the company and the hard to keep up hair.

But events have a way of catching up with a person, which they did with me. Heather had been nursing her Mom who was in terminal cancer and who finally died.

Remembering how Mom was about hair, I automatically proceeded to get rid of my beard, my mustache and went to the barber shop and got an "establishment haircut."

Much more time elapsed, I spent a year in tech school, went to work for an arm of the Bell system and tried to keep up working as many hours a day as I could at our flower shop (the time I worked there at the factory was third shift unless they cut it off and if so I went to second shift, so could work the flower shop).

In the inevitability of a person who drank often and perhaps my genes had something to do with it also, I had that last drink too many and was an alcoholic. Through the grace of my higher power I had worked two jobs, drove delivery for our flower shop and never had a wreck or physically hurt anyone. Heather saw to it that I was put in Mount Airy a psychiatric facility that specialized in the treatment and rehabilitation of substance abusers and spent most of my day in classes and a bit of time in Occupational Therapy. I was doing pretty well and working for privileges such as going downstairs to the dining room to eat and such. I finally earned the privilege of riding the bus downtown and going to the Denver Art Museum by myself. As a sign to myself that I was in recovery I began to grow a mustache, which I have to this day.

I went back to work and was the typical long haired "middle-aged hippy" that some of the younger folk there called me and my hair wasn't so awful long either, just a bit longer than theirs.

About the time the company began to float the "early retirement" banner, I could see the handwriting on the wall and figured, what the hell, and began to grow a beard again. Heather put up with that pretty well as during that time my two sons were bearded. And, I still have a beard too.

There is only one thing that keeps me from having super long hair, my forehead is trying to migrate to my tailbone and somehow, a bald head and a pigtail don't go together in my mind, (seems like hair at the nape of the neck makes the pigtail). The thought comes into my mind of people calling me that "Ancient Hippy" doesn'tseem to fit me too well. For other people it might, ! ! ! ! More power to them, live happy I say. But a bald head and a pigtail is just not my bag.

LA the Sage will probably laugh her tuchus off at this entry.

So, nowadays Heather has the controls in the hair department and tells me when to cut OR NOT TO CUT . . . . . . . . .

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