In the grocery store last night, I passed the magazine rack. Two shelves of rags total, the top one apparently for women, the bottom one apparently for men.

The magazines on the top shelf looked all alike: a single female (some celebs, some just models), shown from head to about the knees, in various outfits, from bikinis to wedding dresses. I couldn’t tell one from another—they all looked so much alike that the whole shelf kind of just blended together in one collage of women.

There was one section of the top shelf, about a quarter of the space, for “home and garden” type mags. The only one that caught my eye was Gardens & Guns: 21st Century Southern America. This is the only book I took down and looked through—it’s mostly “garden” and no appreciable “gun,” so I put it back on the shelf. What a piece of false advertising. I’d have bought it if it had advice for shooting garden gnomes—“Rifles or shotguns?”

The magazines on the bottom shelf looked very different from the top shelf, and even from each other—mags about cops, cars, games, music, computers, and women. There were three mags on guitars, three on cars (plus one specifically on just trucks), two on computer games (plus one on computers in the general), and a bunch of gansta and rock idiots with too many tattoos and too little common decency.

Looking over this rack made me think just what kind of shoppers this store has to layout this selection of reading material. But then, this is a store whose head cashier is a young hispanic girl with blonde hair and a name tag that reads, “Barbie.” (No lie!)

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I used to always get my hair cut by the same person for years at a time. The only time I ever changed my barber/hairstylist (or whatever they’re called now) was when I moved or they moved. I’ve had about 6 regular barbers in my life, and maybe 6 other one-timers, until lately.

I like being able to walk in, sit down and not have to explain anything. I like consistency, and I like being able to close my eyes and doze in the chair. (It’s usually the only nap I get in a month.) My best barbers are those who realize early that I’m not much on small talk in the chair, and if they just let me sit quietly to think or doze, they get a good tip.

Lately, however, I’ve been going to a spot that just opened a few months ago very near my home. (About 200 yards, near.) Unfortunately, in the four times I’ve been there, I’ve had a different barber every time. Fortunately, they record my choice of length so everyone knows how much I want my hair cut. This record, combined with the convenience of being able to show up at any time by just walking from my home is what gets me to put up with having a different barber every time. No appointment is necessary, and I’ve never had to wait more than maybe five minutes for a chair.

The thing they don’t record in my “customer log,” though, is my hairstyle. And there in lies the funny: I don’t have a hairstyle. My hair does what it does, and I never give it a thought on a daily basis. I wash my hair in the shower, dry it off with a towel, run my fingers through it to make sure nothing is sticking up, and then I’m done. It might look slightly different each day, especially depending on how long it’s getting.

A new barber always asks me about how I like it styled. They usually ask based on how it’s “styled” at the moment they’re looking at it, but they don’t realize that I never know how it’s “styled” until they comment on it. I just don’t think about my hair—it’s still there, in full, so I’m happy and content without giving it any attention. And what the barbers never know, and I never tell them, is that as soon as I walk out their door with my new cut, I tend to run my hands through my hair. It’s a habit, but it feels good, and it breaks up the “perfect look” they comb and brush into it.

I had one barber, several years ago, chastise me for putting a cap on my head after the haircut. I had been wearing the cap when I came in, and so naturally I just put it back on when about to walk out.

“You know,” she said politely, and with a little mirth, “that usually insults your hairstylist, especially right after she does your hair.”

“But,” I countered, a little embarrassed, “I wore it in.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

We both paused a few moments, and then I took my cap back off.

I liked that barber (she knew me and let me nap in her chair), so out of respect, I never wore a cap to her store. But I still ran my fingers through my hair and mussed up my do every time I left her store, once I was around the corner and safely out of sight.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

Yesterday afternoon I took the boys to the park, and afterward, for dinner, I took them to the Golden Corral buffet. It’s been a long time since we’ve been to GC—I used to take the boys there for a dinner once every few weeks or so. We haven’t been since the near-3 year old sat in a highchair.

GC is great for a family with diverse tastes. Everyone can find something they want (even if none of it is the best in its class), you can get the food immediately, and you can get as much of it as you want—I can easily get fruits and vegetables in the boys because there’s a large selection to choose from.

I used to have to push the younger boy around in his highchair (or pick him up and carry him), back and forth from the table and buffet counter. This time both boys walked and carried their own plates to the buffet with me. The older got his own food from the counter, but I still had to serve the little guy—but he managed to carry a plate full of food without dropping anything.

The most fun thing about going to GC is taking the boys to the dessert buffet. It’s like walking into the living room on Christmas morning to them: all the sweets they could possibly imagine, and more they’ve never seen, all spread out on a long counter. The 6 year old made sure to look at and consider every single dessert, but the 2 year old immediately pointed to a chocolate cake with chocolate icing and said, “I want that!”

I put a slice of cake on the 2 year old’s plate, but the 6 year old was still considering the selection. He knew he was only going to get one item [probably], so he wanted to make sure he got the absolute best thing. Me, I got two things, but I announced my second choice was “for us to share.” I knew probably neither of the boys would want to try what I got to share. (Yeah, I’m that devious when it comes to dessert.)

Eventually we took our treasures back to the table and ate them. Surprisingly, the 6 year old wanted more food. He went back and got two more slices of pizza. Good gracious, but the boy put away some food. He’s only 60 pounds (normal for his age and height), but he ate more than I did: 4 [small] slices of pizza, some pear slices, a heap of pineapple chunks, some carrots, and a chocolate cupcake. (Granted, I probably matched his intake counting my extra dessert.)

The dinner was fun. It’s easier now that I don’t have to handle a highchair at the table, and clean up is much easier than at home: toss a couple bucks on the table and walk away. God bless waitresses and busboys.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I and my 6 year old son went to a 50s-style hamburger joint this evening to pick up burgers and hot dogs for the family for dinner. We’ve been there a few times over the six months or so it’s been open. The food is decently good when you want such food but don’t want to hit McDonald’s again.

The restaurant blares old 50s and 60s music through the overhead speakers. There are two big-screen monitors that look like old, wood television sets, silently showing old TV shows like The Andy Griffith Show and The Johnny Carson Show. My son was mesmerized by the TVs. As he watched, I explained it to him: a long time ago, TV was only black and white; there were no remote controls—we had to change the channel by turning a knob; there was no Animal Planet channel—in fact, there were only three or four channels, total.

Without taking his eyes off the monitors, he asked, “Did TVs have volume back then?”

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com