My regular hairstylist has gone missing from the last place I found her (after she went missing from the previous place I knew her), and I’ve been loathe to find a replacement. See this post for the important details regarding my plight.

But after going two weeks beyond my usual hair growth limit, my head was taking on the resemblance of a squirrel’s nest. I had to bite the bullet and just pick someone, somewhere to cut my hair. So this past Friday, I called a nearby Mitchell’s hair salon.

I should have known I’d get a less than pleasing result when the woman directed to attend to my messy top was essentially indecipherable. I don’t know how many times I said, “I’m sorry, what?” while sitting in her chair. But at least after a couple of failed attempts at the small talk, when it became clear that the language barrier between us was insurmountable, (there are apparently very few recognizable sounds between Hindi-English and Southern-English), she let me sit quietly and close my eyes to doze a bit.

When she was done, I wasn’t really satisfied with my look, but I couldn’t exactly describe what was wrong. And even if I had the necessary descriptive power, I doubt I could have conveyed the points to the woman. So I settled for saying the universal concept of “OK,” just to get out of the seat and out of the salon.

Later, at home, in the mirror with some time to truly examine my cropped locks, I was able to find the words to describe my new haircut: “crap.” Yep, I had a terrible haircut. Dammit.

Then this past weekend, for some strange reason, I decided to shave off my mustache and goatee. I used to shave and grow this thing every couple of weeks, but for the past two years I’ve maintained it constantly. There are people who know me now who have never seen me without my facial hair.

As soon as I finished wiping the residual shaving cream from my chin, I realized shaving was a mistake. I’ve always thought I have a boring face. Even when I was in my twenties, I experimented with beards, mustaches, and goatees. And now that I’ve grown so accustomed to the mustache and goatee, its absence is stark.

I never deluded myself to thinking that I looked all suave and debonair with my lip and chin hair, but without it I look fully dorkish. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for several minutes before walking out to the bedroom.

Cowgrit was never a fan of facial hair, and put up with mine only because she loved me. But even she had lately grown accustomed to it. This reversion back to my bare face had a little shock value.

At work, when someone commented, “Hey, you shaved your beard,” I replied, “Yeah, I just did it to draw attention away from my bad haircut.”

Fortunately, my hair (head and face) grows pretty fast. I’ll be searching for a new stylist in three weeks, and my mustache and goatee will be at least recognizable before this week is out. I’ll just have to avoid company photos and family reunions till then.

Bullgrit

Calfgrit4 has gone to a few “Stretch and Grow” classes where the preschool kids do some exercises and tumbles and such as structured play. He seems to like the class, and it’s good to see how his physical skills are progressing by watching him perform specific activities.

One activity had the instructor telling the children to stretch way up with both hands, pretend to grab a star, pull it down, blow on it, and make a wish.

“What did you wish for,” the instructor asked each child:

Calfgrit4’s answer was practical, if unimaginative: “Water.” I guess stretching and growing makes him thirsty.

The other children answered:

“A dog.”

“A baby brother or baby sister.”

“Oatmeal.”

* * *

Bonus fun from the mind of Calfgrit4:

“How much does money cost?”

Bullgrit

I used to live in Wilmington, NC. Wrightsville Beach was just a three-minute drive from my apartment, and I spent a lot of time enjoying the beach environment.

WB is more of a residential beach than something like Myrtle Beach –- there are very few businesses on WB other than some hotels, a few restaurants, and single beach supply store. At night, when the sun goes down, it’s a pretty quiet area. If I were to move to live on a beach, WB is where I’d go.

To support this quiet, small town atmosphere, the WB police are on the ball -– they’re attentive. This is a good thing for WB residents, though maybe not so good a thing for rowdy college kids wanting to party.

One night, when I was in my mid 20s, well into the dark hours, I couldn’t sleep. I got up from bed, put on shorts and a t-shirt, and went to my car. I drove out of the quiet apartment complex in Wilmington to just ride around a bit. Soon I was driving to Wrightsville Beach.

There was nothing to do at WB at 1:00 in the morning, so I just drove around with the windows down, listening to the sound of the wind and surf. Within a minute or so of my pulling onto the main drive along the length of the small island upon which WB sits (just over two short bridges), a police car got behind me.

At first I just thought we were both going the same direction, so I didn’t think anything of it. There were no other cars on the road at that hour, so it soon became pretty clear that the cop was following me. When I pulled into a short side road that went through a small neighborhood of beach houses, the cop car followed me.

I realized what was going on immediately. Here was a lone car, driving slowly down the empty streets, possibly casing the area for some nefarious purpose. I made sure not to break any road rules, but I began making my way back to the exit of WB.

As soon as I crossed the second bridge off the island, the cop car slowed down, made a u-turn and returned to his patrol.

Now, would this cop have followed me and watched me like that if I was a white guy driving on the beach road? Oh, wait, I am a white guy.

A couple years before the above situation, I was accused of shoplifting. But again, I’m a white guy.

I can’t help but wonder, if I were black, would I or someone claim these events occurred because the cops and/or the clerk were profiling me based on my race?

Bullgrit

Say you just arrived home from a three-week trip abroad. You find your front door stuck, so you have to enter your house through the back door. But to get your luggage inside, you have to shoulder open the front door. This all takes a few minutes, but you finally get all inside. Phew. It’s good to be home.

Then a couple minutes after, you find the police knocking on your door.

How would you handle this scenario?

I like to think I’m a reasonable citizen, appreciative of what the police do for the community. When a police officer says he’s responding to a report of a suspected burglary, and asks for identification, I think my response would be, “Oh, sure, let me get my wallet.” I’d probably even add, “Come on in, take a look around if you want to.”

I hope I’d appreciate the attentiveness and care of a neighbor keeping an eye out for my home (especially when I’m away for weeks), and the responsiveness and responsibility of the police for investigating a report of suspicious activity at my home. I mean, the alternative is having neighbors not care or the police not look into someone actually burglarizing my home.

I’d explain why I had to enter my home by the back door, and I’d explain why I had to shoulder my way into the front door (maybe even giving them a demonstration of the stuck portal). I might even laugh at how it probably did, indeed, look suspicious to someone outside. In my mind, this whole situation is a very good thing – neighbors and police are looking out for a citizen and his home.

But then, the above is how a reasonable and understanding citizen might handle the scenario.

Here’s how a jackass with a chip on his shoulder would handle the situation: ABC News

Bullgrit