Something in common with ...ugg...hippies

I hate getting my hairs cut. Well, I like getting a fresh shape-up, but I hate the experience of getting my hair cut. For the first 19 years of my life, one guy cut my hair. His name was Maurice. He's been high-top fading it since 1958. That's 51 years and counting. Sure, he has arthritis and has been known to drop the scissors or nick a customer with the clippers-what barber hasn't? (Good ones.) He knows how to cut hair about 3 different ways- a buzz cut, a flat top, or just a trim. No styling, no faux-hawks, no George Clooneys or Brad Pitts. Just 5 minutes in a chair, maybe a shave with hot foam around the ears, and then a healthy rub in of Jeris brand hair tonic (Which in itself is worth a story. Jeris is this green liquid with a layer of clear oil on top.). The younger folks got an "Okey Doker" when he was finished as Maurice lowered the chair. He hands out a lollipop and mom pays the man 5 dollars. That was it. No fuss, no muss. He only cuts men's hair. He also only cuts white guys' hair. That's just how he is. He might tell a slightly racist joke from time to time, too.

But the best part of getting my hairs cut there was the lack of forced conversation or awkward silence. That's what I get now, which is why I only get 4 hair cuts a year.

Since moving to Ithaca, I've seen 4 different hair cutters.
The first was a classic barbershop. It had a pole and everything. There were old hunting magazines laying around and the barber was about as friendly as Uncle Jesse when the Duke boys were up to no good.
It wasn't such a bad experience, really, until he charged me 17 bucks for a trim. Maybe that's the going rate, but really? For an old school barbershop? I don't think so.

Then I went to a place called Ithacuts. Get it? So this haircutter was new to the country from somewhere in Africa. I liked what she did, but it took about 45 minutes to cut my hair. 45 minutes! Why is she going so slow, I thought. Most men that pay a woman for 45 minutes of service use fake names and or own a tractor trailer.

I went to the mall once. Mastercuts, or Supercuts or something. It was late, about 8 o'clock in the evening, maybe. She was the only one in the shop, I was the only customer. The radio was on and playing some r and b stuff. While she was cutting my hair, she decided to sing along to Beyonce. She probably thought she was being sexy, except her breath smelled like dog shit. I held my breath for most of the hair cut and tried not to engage her in conversation.
She gave me her card afterwards and a punch card (the 10th haircut is free!).
I contemplated going back to the place again, but calling to see if she was there. If she was there, I wouldn't go and vice versa.

By that point, I was pretty much scarred with the whole haircut experience. I knew the whole time I lived here, that there was a barber shop in my apartment building. I knew that once I went there, I'd have to go there for good. I couldn't walk by the barber shop with another person's haircut. It would be devastating-like cheatin' on a woman.
I finally sucked it up and went to Joe, the guy in my building. He was a friendly old man. We had great conversation about my job, the state of Delaware, what Darcy does at Cornell, and Joe Biden.
When I passed the shop in the following weeks, Joe was friendly and wished me well. It wasn't a terrible experience. A month or two later, I went back to Joe. We again had conversation about my job, the state of Delaware-where his daughter lives, what Darcy does at Cornell, and Joe Biden. Exactly the same conversation. Exactly the same stories.

I went again a couple months later. Same conversation. Kind of annoying. Same surprised expression when I tell him I grew up in Delaware. "My daughter lives there!" he says. "Joe Biden's her neighbor!" He says. "Statistics!?" He says. "You're not a student?" He asks.

One time, I found his shop open, but empty and he was down stairs having some coffee. I asked if I could get a haircut. He followed me up the stairs and I swear he almost died. He had to sit down in the shop for a while and wheezed up a heart when he was cutting my hair. Kind of scary. "Delaware!" he says. "My daughter lives there. Joe Biden's her neighbor."

Well, at least yesterday he opened with a "You're not a hunter? It's been slow because hunting season started."
"I'm not a hunter," I say.
"I've shot at Koreans, but I don't shoot deer," he says. "Don't know if I actually hit any, but I shot at them."

That was a good line. I thought it was worth repeating in blog form. Then, of course, we talked about Joe Biden and Delaware and Statistics.

For better or worse, he's my barber for the next few years. Maybe I should come up with a new home state, just to shake things up a little.

Mile-y Cyrus

No, the b-log doesn't only focus on teen pop phenoms. The title is clever wordplay, sort of.
The blogmobile, the official transportation of the B in Blog, recently passed the 100,000 mark on the odometer. It was somewhere south of Gettysburg on my way to the nation's capital (Washington, D.C.).
There have been many fond memories along the way. Here are some notable ones:

1. Driving to Canada. It marks the only occasion when it left American soil. Unless, of course, you count the parts and laborers when it was built. Psych. It was made in America. I don't trust Korea and I certainly don't trust their cars.

2. Massachusetts and back in one day. Curl and I left Ithaca at 5 in the mornin. We watched the Chargers lose an AFC Championship game to those dirty Patriots and drove back afterwards in silence.

3. Jumpstarts. It's the king of jumpstarts. It has jumpstarted at least a dozen inferior Japanese cars.

4. The time Diggs broke it. It was winter. It was snowy and icy behind Baytree Apartments. We were pulling Chuck on a rope behind us and as I turned sharply to throw him off, the Blogmobile slid into the sidewalk, forever misaligning its right front tire.

5. The time it captured al-Quaeda. It had plenty of room for 5 terrorists, but I stuffed 36 of them in there and dropped them off at the FBI. You're welcome, America.

Important Announcement

Tomorrow is Digger's birthday. Since he totally forgot my birthday, I'm encouraging all of you to remember to forget his. If you feel like you are obligated to remember his birthday because you are his wife or former college roommate I urge you to say something mean spirited. Try this for instance: Happy Birthday you old bag of crap. Or, 29 years ago your mom should have quit drinking dran-o, so happy birthday. Or, "hey Diggs, how old are you?" "29.". "Oh. I didn't know they could stack shit that high. "

I never thought I would write this

Okay Taylor Swift. We get it. You can stop with all the bad singing and sappy song writing. Let's let somebody with real talent win some awards and be on magazine covers. Perhaps you can reinvent yourself as a cast member of "Saved by the Bell:The Musical".

We know you're a nice kid and teenagers relate to you, but you seem to lack the one thing it takes to be a singer-a good voice.

Smell you later, Taylor Swift.

That's my old tailgunner, Johnny Magee.

Good Friday to the B-log readers. There's a new Jerk of the Year list coming out soon, and it's practically overflowing, like a toilet on free chili and coffee night.

Ask me what I wore to work today. Go ahead.
You:Hey Brent, what did you wear to work today?
Brent: My birthday suit because it's my birthday.
You: (Awkwardly) Ohhh! Happy Birthday!

That is like the least sincere birthday wish out there. Someone knows it's your birthday for like 1 second and they're all happy for you. Whatever.