I can’t tell if I’m in a really good mood, or just had too much caffeine.
After being snowed in yesterday, I was able to make my way to the coffee shop today and knock out a solid day’s work powered by a hazelnut latte and too-many-to-count light roast coffee refills.
It’s Friday. Another week has passed and we’re getting closer to warm weather. The sun is out and is melting the snow on the roof, causing water to run off the overhang outside the window where I am sitting. Next week, we’re supposed to reach all the way into the 50s. I imagine it will feel as if we have moved to the equator.
That’s a picture of the Bill’s Barber Shop, next door to where I’m working right now. Bill has been cutting hair in that spot for decades. He cut my father’s hair when my dad was a young boy sporting a buzz cut more than 50 years ago.
I took my son to him for his first hair cut. I’ve told this story before, but in case you missed it…
My son was horrified by the entire situation. Sitting on a booster seat in the barber chair, with a white apron tied around his neck, my son’s lower lip began to quiver before Bill even started.
The sound of the razor, the grip of Bill’s hand on top of his head, trying to trim the hair above his tiny toddler ears – it was all too much. Minutes into the hair cut, my son’s tears had turned into full-on sobbing.
I reached for a kleenex to wipe the snot-mixed-with-hair-clippings that was coating his face, and knocked the box off of Bill’s shelf. When I squatted down to pick it up, my pants ripped from the bottom of my zipper all the way around to the back waistband.
It was the loudest ripping sound ever, louder than packaging tape being pulled off a roll, louder than the hulk’s shirt ripping across his chest. Loud enough to completely silence the 60+ year old men seated along the wall, awaiting their turn – all of then getting a wide-angle view of my pink cotton underwear.
More than five years later, this story is still makes me laugh no matter how much coffee I’ve had.