My Week in Hair

Some Changes

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 23:14:00 +0000

Due to changes in Bravenet's hosting policies, the Web site formerly connected to this blog is now defunct. Sorry if you're trying to access My Big Hair Day's main page. It's now history. And because this blogger template is no longer active, I can't delete the link on the side panel. So there's more history.

New Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 05:05:00 +0000

I don't know how well I'll keep up with it, but here it is, the new blog: shortstoryreader.blogspot.com. Mostly just an attempt to share great reading with others.

Interview with Guy Fresh from Barber

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 04:39:00 +0000

Got hair cut?

Yep.

What do you think about it?

Eh, I've had one before.

Are you going to do it again?

Probably.

Okay. Thanks for talking.

The Deal

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 13 Feb 2007 04:25:00 +0000

Dear Big Hair: What's the deal with hair? --Scottie

Dear Scottie: You tell me.

Clearly, you're don't get it.

Take a look at something as simple as a music video. I'll reference two from the eighties that I saw just this evening: A-ha's "Take On Me" and Kraftwerk's "The Model." Now, back in the eighties, which band was IT? That's right. A-ha. Kraftwerk, while nice "musik," was nerdy. Now take a look at the hairstyles of the two groups. A-ha--big, well-crafted doos. Kraftwerk--clean-shaven, clean-cut, might as well be your dad.

In "Take On Me" a girl drops in to a cartoon she's so enamored by the band leader's hair. Later, she takes the cartoon home just to lust after his picture.

In "The Model," by contrast, the band stands around a clean studio making "musik." They sing about models, women models, with big hair--who they can't have. Clearly, the women got it here, but the men didn't. Kraftwerk should have taken a page out of A-ha's notebook. If they had, the model would have been a song of seduction rather than of longing and loneliness.

That, my friend, is the deal with hair.

True Love

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 03:45:00 +0000

Dear Big Hair: Will I ever find true love? --Mandy

Dear Mandy: What do I look like? Your horoscope? Tell me something about your hair. Maybe I can tell you.

By the way, Mandy, if you want to know about love and hair, a good place to go is the movies. I've been checking out quite a few lately, and hair has played at least a part in each. Last weekend, for example, Nick Nolte in Off the Black, in a crucial scene near the end of the film, put on his umpire costume and . . . quaffed his hair. It had to be perfect under the cap. Think about that next time you watch the ballplayers out on the diamond. They've probably spent not only hours in batting practice, but probably another few minutes in front of the mirror with a brush and comb--and their cap.

The thing about baseball hair is it's got to look good with a cap. For hair advice and questions, write to No1bag@gmail.com.

Famous Fears Fear Not

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 00:26:00 +0000

Dear Big Hair: I don't need advice, but I have a question you might be able to answer: Do famous actresses have straight hair because they're famous, or do they get famous because they have straight hair? Put another way, do you have to straighten your hair to become famous (as an actress), or, once you're famous, is it just understood that you'll straighten your hair? A related question is, Can you think of any actresses whose "before" hair is straight while her "after" hair is curly? I can't. --Not Wanting to Become Famous; Just Wondering

Dear Not Wanting to Become Famous; Just Wondering: That you do want to become famous is evident from the question. Your uncertainty about your abilities to do so is evident in your name, which straddles two identities, not wanting to commit to anything too wholehearted. Fear not, you curly-haired woman. There is plenty of room for you in Hollywood. You are forgetting the many curly-haired women who have come to our screen. Most recently would be Kate Hudson, of Almost Famous fame and of that other movie about her being an aunt to two kids she inherits and doesn't want (yeah, I know, you didn't see it, like I didn't and like so many others). In the seventies, there was Shirley Henderson or whatever her name was, the woman who played the owner of the diner on What's Happening? Now those were some curls. More impressive than her, though, is the greatest actress of ALL TIME, Shirley Temple, who was absolutely famous for her curls. What would she have been without them? (I will admit that curls tend to go better on the kid actresses, but if you're relatively young--say under twenty-five--you should have no problem squeezing into roles down to age ten.) As for whether I can think of any actresses who curled their hair in fame when they had straight hair before fame, the answer is I haven't know any actresses before they became famous. Do you think I'm a stalker or something?

And let's not forget the many fine actors with curly hair as well, like Carrot Top.

Keeping Up Appearances

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 23 Jan 2007 01:29:00 +0000

Dear Big Hair: Recently, my boyfriend told me that I would never be a good writer because I don't have the proper hair. My boyfriend tells me that writers always have short hair, even women, and glasses. If they are women, it's that sort of punky hair--or it would be punky, if they were to dye it purple but usually they just leave it like normal. I'm very distraught. I love my hair. It is big. Can women with big hair be writers? --Big-and-Beatific Kerouac Wannabe

Dear Big-and-Beatific Kerouac Wannabe: Your boyfriend is a ninny. Of course you can still be a writer with big hair. The issue isn't whether you can be a writer but what kind of writer you want to be. Here are some of the kinds of writers who have big hair: (1) romance novelists (particularly those from Texas); (2) eighties music hipsters who were hip but are no longer and don't yet know it; (3) ummmm. Okay, that leaves two options open for you. I'd go for the second. I think they're a happier breed, living in their past but thinking it's the present, rather than living in their future dreams and waiting for them to arrive. Your chosen nom de plume (that's French for pen name, Ms. Kerouac Wannabe) suggests to me, however, that you want to write like a beat. Big hair, unfortunately, will not work for that. Can you see Kerouac with some huge pompadour and long strings rolling down his back? The guy would have gotten his hair caught in a passing car. To be a beat, you'll need to cut your hair drastically, probably in line with your ninny boyfriend's suggestion. I would, however, choose, instead, to be a hippie writer. At least then, you could keep your hair--though blowdrying and washing would be no-nos. I'm afraid you'll have to settle for dirty, unkempt, and flat--but at least you'll still have the long tresses for when you want to become a New York society maven writer to the stars.

For hair advice, write no1bag@gmail.com.

Rabbit Trouble

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Mon, 15 Jan 2007 22:01:00 +0000

Dear Big Hair: My hair looks like lettuce? You know, it's green and rabbits like to eat it. It's awful trouble. What should I do? --Not a Vegetable Hater

Dear Not a Vegetable Hater: Your name suggests to me that you might usefully put your hair to use in a salad. No reason to let the rabbits have what you very well could use for yourself, unless of course you have some pet rabbits, in which case, you can save on rabbit food. A good salad, should you decide to go that route, includes feta cheese, olive oil, vinegar, olives, tomatos, and a little cilantro. You could easily do the oil and vinegar right on your head--and you could probably get the feta to stick--saving yourself the trouble of dishes. But for the true experience, you'll probably need a bowl and a good haircutting before hand. I suggest you cut your head, directly over the bowl.

For hair advice, write no1bag@gmail.com.

When Wigs Grow Old

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 09 Jan 2007 01:08:00 +0000

Dear Big Hair: I have a dilemma. I started going bald at age eleven. Since age twelve, I've worn a wig. None of my friends know that this isn't my real hair, and unfortunately, last month, the wig manufacturer stopped replicating my particular hairdo and color. My wig is in need of desperate repair due to an incident with a racoon at a swimming pool. What should I do? If I change wigs now, everyone will know--or at the least, they'll think I'm dying my hair, which would be sissy. I don't want to be a sissy. --Sixteen and Desperate

Dear Sixteen and Desperate: Be a man. Suck it up. Most guys go bald eventually, and the fact that you're in high school shouldn't stop you from taking your lumps now. You're a freak. Acknowledge it, live with it, and move on.

For hair advice, write no1bag@gmail.com--or post your question as a comment to the most recent posting.

Trail of Tresses

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Mon, 25 Dec 2006 16:15:00 +0000

I don't know that I've ever been a particularly popular person. My quiet ways and my discomfort around most people and larger groups of people probably takes care of that. I figure I'm one destined to fade into the background and remain there.

Lately, however, at church, I have become popular among the two- to ten-year-old set, and this by-and-large seems all right. Because I'll likely never have children of my own, unless by some chance I ever manage to find someone who I would want to marry who would also want to marry me, hanging out with the kids once a week or so at church is a nice break, from the pressures of adult conversation for me and, for the parents, from having to entertain or watch over their children (not that I'm particularly good at the latter--I tend to get right on into trouble with the kids).

I'm assured, however, that I can/will get married by one of my young cohorts. Oddly, however, the girl (age ten) didn't volunteer to marry me; instead, she volunteered her two-year-old sister. Alas, I will have to wait a long time. Something tells me that the youngest girl wouldn't like being volunteered for a relationship like this, if she only knew.

A few years earlier, an older teen had volunteered his back-then barely teenage sister as a good possibility for dating. I, of course, didn't pursue this, and while the girl had always been quite nice to me when younger, as she's gotten older and prettier, she's found herself surrounded by a lot of guys her own age and barely notices me at all anymore, much as any adult.

What strikes me as odd in all these situations is how a sibling volunteers another one for marriage to me. I don't know what it means, and I don't know that I want to find out. It's just vaguely humorous.

What does any of this have to do with hair? That I don't know either.

Beards Are In

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 02:24:00 +0000

Beards are in. This is what became evident yesterday as I watched six--that's right--six bands play in the afternoon and evening. It's the longest concert I've been to. Certainly, there are music festivals here in town, but I rarely stay for more than a couple of bands. Yesterday, I stayed for the whole thing, mainly because three of the six bands are some of my favorites in town.

The concert occurred at a barn up on Polaski Street owned by the artist Stan Mullins (quite a bit of artwork was featured on the walls as well, which made for interesting viewing). Essentially, the show was a party for Venice Is Sinking, which was celebrating its third anniversary.

Of the five members in Venice Is Sinking, three had beards. Taking into account that Carolyn the violinist wouldn't likely grow a beard, that leaves beards on three of four. Most other bands were much the same, though I'd have a hard time tallying up exact totals for all of them, as my mind won't recall the faces of every band member in the other groups. And the trend continued into the audience, where male with beards probably made up half the audience.

What's the deal? It's winter, I suppose, and a beard does help a bit. Beyond that, I don't know. Am I tempted to grow back my own? Sort of. I liked the look, but not everyone else did (most who made a comment said something positive, but a few said something positive only after I got rid of the thing). But I hated all the other hassles--washing the beard, getting food it in, and the inevitable habit of playing with it; beyond that, I look older with it, and I don't particularly want help with that!

All Equal under a Cap

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 12 Dec 2006 02:19:00 +0000

This thought comes to me after a cold, cold weekend: We're all equal when under a cap. Girls with long hair, guys with luscious pompadours, bald guys, balding women. No one can tell which is which based on the cap alone. I should be cheering winter on.

The Natural Life of a Spark Plug

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Mon, 04 Dec 2006 23:32:00 +0000

Saturday night I went to see my friend Andy's band play; opening for him was a band that I'd heard about but had never heard--Mandy Jane and the Jaws of Life. Not being a country music fan, I didn't pay much attention to the praise heaped on this duo. But I've been missing out. It wasn't so much that the performance itself was amazing--the band seemed rather disorganized--but that the singing was so incredible. What a voice! It reminded me of a spark plug, how it can stir things up and make a whole car go, and Mandy Jane's voice stirred up each song and made it go. The country wasn't too much to put up with either; I find myself drawn more and more to country-tinged rock, and so maybe old country (mainly what was played) isn't so bad, especially if it has a comedic twist, as these songs did.

As for hair, because that's the real reason to stick anything on here, Mandy and Ken (or Kevin?), her partner, both had light hair, her's a lighter brighter blonde than his. He was balding--hair was short--and had a beard. Her hair was in a bob, or at least what I think of as a bob. On stage, the chemistry between them was palpable.

But really, it was all about the voices, hers and his occasional beat box.

8Es

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 28 Nov 2006 05:15:00 +0000

New bar in town that I've never been to--8Es. It's supposed to be some 80s retro bar; yes, that scene from Back to the Future has come true--we have retro 80s hangouts now. Or at least, we have places named as if they are retro 80s hangouts. I walked by there one day last week, and there didn't appear to be much going on that had to do with that decade. The music didn't even sound like stuff from the 80s. Maybe it was 80s Anthrax or something--I'll admit that my knowledge of that genre of music is lacking from that period, from all periods.

The people there, of course, did not appear to be folks who lived in the 80s, except maybe as toddlers and grade schoolers. My own 80s is tied up mainly in high school. Nothing really could take me back to it. I don't feel like I'm living in the 80s when I hang out with high school kids, and I don't feel like I'm living in the 80s when I am hanging out with people I went to school with in the 80s. We look so different, and our lives are so different, so much more confusing, so much more busy, so much more adult.

Perhaps where I feel the 80s most is in the music--and most recently in the music videos. The other day, I had the opportunity to see A-ha's "Take On Me" video. I don't know that I ever saw the video in its own day, but the song itself takes me back with ease. Add in folks with crazy 1980s hairdos (the band's long feathered hair, the girl's curls) and a video with a certain haze over the live action material to make it seem more glamorous, and oh yeah, you've got me.

But what do you have me in? Perhaps the reason I can only look back at the 80s with nostalgia, look back at it when listening to its music or watching films of the period I'd never seen, is that I can only look back at it with people in the 80s, people stuck in the 80s, forever, as they are on film. Life was a lot of trouble then. I was in high school, after all, and everything is trouble for a teenager. But it was also, when I look back at it now, much more innocent. A video like this could wow me, could make me dream. It still makes me dream, but in a different ways. I used to dream of the future. Now I dream of the past.

Men versus Women

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 01:22:00 +0000

This past weekend I finally got around to watching Match Point. I'd missed it in the theater, mainly because I was too cheap to pay the full price, something I find myself increasingly unwilling to do now that I can rent and play DVDs. The film was depressing, thought provoking, and at moments intense. But this isn't a place for that sort of review; plenty of others have written up the film's implications.

I'm more interested in the film's hair. I found it difficult to discern the difference between the two main male characters in the film, Chris and Tom (?). They both had short brown hair. The women, by contrast, one a blonde, one a brunette, were not hard to tell apart at all. I don't think it was merely the difference in hair color, however.

I am reminded of my teaching days at Ole Miss. There, I had the same problem. I could very easily tell my female students apart, but the guys, mostly short haired, mostly brunette, were difficult to keep straight at times.

Perhaps, it's that I'm a guy, but I have a hard time telling guys apart, at least, until I know them very well. This wasn't as much of a problem before I moved to the South. In California, things were easier, since people were different on other levels beyond their hair. And here in Georgia, I have not had too much of a problem either, for that same reason. But in Mississippi, and among the British upperclass, the hair is all the same, it seems, for men at least, and so they blend into one indistinguishable mass. I wonder if women have a hard time distinguishing women apart. For me, even beyond the hair, there are so many other parts to keep track of, that every woman is her own person. Lucky women.

Bowlin Away

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 14 Nov 2006 04:14:00 +0000

A friend of mine describes bowling as twee. It is hard, he says, not to see bowling in an ironic way, even as you participate in it. This I don't quite understand, though I suppose there is a certain kitsch value to it, helped along by movies like Kingpins and The Big Lebowski and by shows like Bowling for Dollars.

Bowlers do have a certain aura about them, I suppose, a certain look we expect--or that I expect. I think bowler, and I think of some overweight bald guy in a bowling shirt. He's someone who, if he were tough enough, would have been in a motorbike gang. Instead, he's a bowler. It's easier, and he gets to drink just as much beer.

But this is, of course, not what bowling is about, and I don't know that I've ever seen such a stereotype at a bowling alley when I've been there. Where, then, does the idea arise? This I don't know.

When I look at the two bowling movies mentioned above, I cannot recall any character fitting this description. In fact, if anything, the some of the bowling characters--in the form of Bill Murray in Kingpins and arguably John Tortillo in Lebowski--seemed consumed with maintaining a neat image. A whole page analyzing Murray's hair in that film could probably be written, if only I had seen the film recently.

Brazilian Hairdo

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 07 Nov 2006 04:30:00 +0000

Have you got your Brazilian hairdo? Apparently, this weekend, that meant country, though I'm not sure what even that means. What is a country hairdo? What is a Brazilian one?

I didn't bother changing my hair to be Brazilian. I didn't bother changing anything. But a lot of folks dressed up as hicks, blackened out teeth, added freckles, wore overalls. And then they danced--to Brazilian folk music, which sounded suspiciously like Mexican mariachi music.

I didn't dance. I'm not really Brazilian. I was a pretender who refused to pretend. I felt merely awkward.

But dance they did, and then the music shifted into hip hop and techno, and I stood around watching. Watching was fine. Some of those Brazilians were pretty suave dancers. One of the men was so smooth that any girl he danced with looked stunning in his arms. That's the sort of dancer I'd like to be.

But I don't have Brazilian hair, and I don't know the Brazilian dance steps. It would have been no good to pretend, not with a man like that around.

For Me

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 31 Oct 2006 02:50:00 +0000

So this weekend at church, there was a new lady in the twenty-five- to thirty-five-age with short blonde hair; she had children, of course, and a husband, as women of that age tend to. Young couples like this drift through the Atlanta congregation frequently. I didn't really pay much attention except to think a bit about aging.

Later, someone came up to me and said that he thought he knew me from somewhere. I tried to explain how he might have seen me at church at some previous time, but he noted that he was new to the area, just moved here a month ago. And then I recognized him. He was someone in my sister's class from high school. The name didn't come to me immediately; I called him his father's name first. He had just moved to Rome, Georgia. He, too, had migrated South, finishing up his residency in North Carolina before taking up practice there in Rome. He was a doctor.

A doctor! Now that's a useful profession. I felt sort of lame and unaccomplished.

His wife, of course, was the blonde woman I'd seen earlier, the kids his--his wife was in my sister's class from high school also. I knew them both. They recognized me somehow, though they hadn't been able to place who I was; if it hadn't been for that, I wouldn't have even known, for I hadn't recognized them at all.

Later, I talked with his wife a bit. The age showed around her eyes, as tends to do, but she was still a striking woman, even after all these years. (She had been a brunette in high school.) And he was a striking man. With a family, in a family town. I live in a singles town, with single friends, simply an older version of my younger self, with seemingly nothing to show for all the years. This is what it is to run across the families of those around my age, this sense of failure, of inconsequentiality.

I spent that night in Atlanta at the home of a young couple and their new baby. They own the house. He is working toward a pilot's lesson and is building a computer from scratch (to go with the two he already has). They have satelite television and so much stuff that they can't fit it all in the attic. The living room is crammed with toys and boxes amid the furniture. In the room I was put up in, his office, I lay staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I wasn't jealous of all they had. Their lives seemed incredibly complex, as full as the house in which they lived. Really, I don't desire so much stuff. I like the simple life I lead.

And yet, when I look at my life. It is simple, I think, not only by choice but necessity. What bothers me isn't all the consumer products I don't have--I don't really want them--but the fact that I don't think I even could have them. I don't see how I could afford to own so much, which in turn makes me wonder how I could ever afford a wife, a child, a family, even if such were bestowed on me. I'm no doctor or computer programmer. I work with words, with language, a tool at everyone's disposal. My skills are not rare. I get by just fine, with more than enough--for me. But that's what it comes down to. It's all for me. For me. And so often, though I'm not unhappy, it all seems so pointless.

Rock Star Hair

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 24 Oct 2006 03:36:00 +0000

This week, I went to see my friend Andy's band. I suppose it's more folk music than it is "rock and roll"--there's a lot of guitar and banjo and no drum--but nevertheless, I think of it as a rock band of sorts because it's contemporary and because Andy is a huge Bob Dylan fan, who while a folkster is also a rockster.

And yet, rock it may not be based on this one thing: the hair. The band does not have rock star hair.

Why is it that rock musicians by and large seem to attract the excesses of haircuts? Andy and his cronies where "normal" hair, business cuts that are good for day jobs. Rocksters, however, usually have hair to the extreme. It is long or it is nonexistent. It is purple or blue or a bright unnatural blond or some combination thereof with a little black mixed in. It is long sideburns, mutton chops. It is long mustaches and crazy beards.

I look at the BeeGees Greatest Hits album I recently purchased--photos from each era of the group. I think of them as seventies disco, but they stretch back to sixties and a Beatles-like sound and on into the nineties. In each photo, there is hair. It is long. It is rock star. It gets longer with the seventies. And then, the contemporary photo. At least one of them still has the shoulder-length freeflowing mass, but a couple of the others have cut down to something more manageable. Still, these aren't our business on Monday sort of cuts. These are cool-guy Sting cuts. These are tough-guy/bald-guy Michael Stipe cuts. These are rock stars, even if they'd never written a song.

Ronald McDonald Wigs

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Wed, 04 Oct 2006 04:23:00 +0000

This has nothing to do with my week in hair. It has to do with hair as it fascinates children. I am drawn tonight to think of the hair of a the clown, specifically the clown that sits around in McD's entertaining children. How does one get hair that red? Or clothes that yellow?

Ronald really does look like a guy who works at a fastfood outlet--polyester clothes, bright and garish colors that no human would wear together. It's a ridiculous getup. And kids suck it in.

I never got to see RM live and in person growing up. I wanted to. But he always came on Saturdays, when we were otherwise indisposed as a family. Once, he was supposed to show up on a Wednesday to the Robinsons or the Broadway or JC Penney or some department store like that, specifically to its toy section. I may have this wrong. I may be imagining this. And I may be imagining this also: he didn't show up. He called in sick or whatever. We kids were disappointed.

But he was coming to McD's that Saturday!

Who can blame him? I wouldn't want to go shopping in that outfit either.

Factory on Fire

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 01:43:00 +0000

I am reminded of an e-mail sent to a coworker in the middle of a project. "Can't respond now, factory on fire," it said. "Sprinklers have come on. Everything is wet." Tonight is a night much like it. No factory is on fire but I am. No news this week. I will post again when I feel better.

Hermit Ways

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 00:29:00 +0000

I may be becoming a hermit. Saturday night comes into being, and I prefer to stay home, reading, writing. Or better, I prefer to go out, alone, to a place that is quiet but that has people in it, and sit and read.

A few weeks ago, it was a swimming party where I was. I talked a bit with one guy there and later one woman and felt uncomfortable for the rest--and I knew everyone there. This weekend, it was my friend Andy's birthday party. It was a party with Chris Top, whose birthday it also was. I didn't think I knew Chris, but it turned out I did--we'd gone to a baseball game earlier in the year together. But outside of those two, I didn't know anyone. Everyone seemed much younger than me. And really, I wanted to be at home--doing my laundry, giving myself a haircut.

I stood around staring at the sky, listening to music, eating cake, and generally looking stupid. If I'd been smart, I'd have insisted on inserting myself into someone's conversation, and yet I didn't feel up to it.

That didn't stop me from getting dragged into a conversation with a couple of friendly folks. It was Chris Top and some woman from Germany. We talked of Southern California (Chris is from San Diego, me from L.A., and the German girl was thinking of moving out there). Then Chris went away, and it was just me and the girl. I didn't know what to say, but I made small talk all the same. She was post-doc in biology, so I asked about her projects: sunflower genetics.

Do you really want to know? she asked. Yes, I said. I did. She told me. But even she seemed bored when she told me about it. Try as I did to encourage her to share with me her work, I sensed I only managed to prolong her own boredom. Eventually, she wandered off to get a drink. And me? I wandered off to do some laundry and shave my head.

Day of Baldness 2

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 12 Sep 2006 00:34:00 +0000

It's the name of a horror movie sequel--or should be. I see zombies in the future, bald ones, with pus coming out of their heads from not having worn a cap. Death by sunburn (which probably would be one of the most hurtful ways to go around, at least in terms of the length of the torture).

But I was not one to be part of this movie, at least not this weekend. On my way to work on my friend Courtney's chicken coop this weekend, I actually remembered to grab a cap before I left. I walked again. It was sunny and quite warm, but my head was protected. The protection kept me from getting burned, but it did make things a bit warmer. Things cannot be perfect after all.

Here's the protective gear this weekend: an Angels baseball cap. I hate baseball caps these days, I guess, because they make me look like some kind of sports nut. Even if I actually am an Angels and Dodgers fan, a baseball fan, I am not the kind who would wear sports team paraphenalia. (Now that I'm older, I wish I'd kept that Kauia painters' cap that I never wore.) But alas, I am the kind to wear such items, because if they're in the wardrobe, they get worn, even if I don't like them. So I had the cap AND the shirt on yesterday. The shirt was a birthday gift from about seven years. It isn't just a tee shirt: it's a jersey. It was all Angels. I looked like some kind game-day pimp.

And I helped put together a chicken coop--or part of it. Apparently, this is not me either (according to others), though I like to pretend to be a woodworker.

But at least I didn't get burned.

Day of Baldness

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Mon, 04 Sep 2006 16:44:00 +0000

My mom once said that one never feels one's age except in the bone's. That is, even at sixty, one is twenty-two in one's mind--it is only when trying to run a mile or load a bundle of goods into the trunk of a car that one discovers one's age. The mind is willing, but the flesh has become weak. I would say that the same is in some ways true of baldness. I do not think about not having hair up there atop the head until often it is too late.

Yesterday, I was to work some frisbee golf/ultimate frisbee activity; I was never quite certain what it was. I had at the time that the call for volunteers went out nothing better going on that weekend, and with the activity right where I live, I couldn't justify not helping out. I was also in one of those moods where I felt that my life had so little significance or use that at the very least I could put it to use doing this for some guy that needed volunteers and for a church that wanted some money as a fundraiser.

The activity was in fact within walking distance, and I walked it. I left early, since I wasn't sure how long it would take me. I got to the field by 12:15; I was supposed to be there by 1:00. No one was there, so I sat on a step at the top of football field and realized at the moment that I should have brought a hat. It was sunny, and I was going to be eaten up.

Others arrived, which was a good thing--otherwise, I'd have worried about having shown up at the wrong place, since the main guy in charge never did show up. Apparently, as I found out later, he had had car problems. I moved into the shade. We waited until 1:20; I walked around the facilities for another ten minutes after just to make sure the guy in charge wasn't hiding out somewhere. I was somewhat relieved to avoid the activity, since I thought I would be safe, having spent a large chunk of time in the sun. But after walking home, I had a headache. Looking in the mirror, the reason was clear. I was very red. It seems unfair not to have hair up there; I mean, hair has a purpose, one of which is to protect you from the sun. But alas, I guess I was not made for sun.

Corn Mo Doo

noreply@blogger.com (Short Story Reader) — Tue, 29 Aug 2006 01:22:00 +0000

I first came across Corn Mo in the Dooms UK some nine years or so ago now. The Dooms was the first band I sought out in Fort Worth after moving there. They got a good write-up in the Weekly, and that was enough to convince me, newly arrived, to give them a chance. They were worth it, and Corn Mo, behind the keyboards seemed to the quintessential cool elment of the band. What made Corn Mo cool? It was probably a combination of things, but certainly one of them was his hair.

Corn Mo had, at that time, a beard, mustache, and a long blond maine. The beard and mustache have since been replaced by long mutton chop sideburns, but the rest remains. He was, at the time, relatively thin and muscular, everything, it seemed, that I was not, at least in terms of coolness.

But here was the odd part. Corn Mo was a real person, kind, not the kind of person you think of as "cool." Granted, it was the Dooms UK, and nothing about that band was exactly normal. They were songs about elves living under the city and mechanical monkeys after all (both songs were never put to a album, so we slog along without that record).

I ran into Corn Mo one day on the streets of downtown Fort Worth. I saw his solo work once, which is where the name comes from. He was affable and friendly and we talked for awhile about why he was out there and about his performance work. More recently, he showed up in Athens, where I have since moved (he has since moved to New York). He was the same affable man, a bit heavier but with the same long stallionlike hair, and a whole lot funnier and exciting as a performer than he had even been back in Texas. I talked with him after his show, and although he didn't know me at all, he made it seem like he did, asking my name and acknowledging the whole Fort Worth connection. He seemed genuinely pleased that one of his old Texas fans had come to a show in Georgia.

I guess I've typically found long hair somewhat offputting in men. Such speaks to me of them either being hippis or so extremely cool that they would be too cool for me. Corn Mo is neither. His hair is part of the act, I think, the act of being cool, but deep down, he's also a really nice guy and a funny one as well. Go see him perform if you ever have the chance.