The Haircut

I had a big day this week. In one outing I went to the indoor range to pick up my shotgun, the grocery store for a pair of plastic scissors and a bottle of Gewürztraminer, and the barbershop across the street from the university where I had been a student, professor, and staff member over the years. That’s a busy day for a retired guy. I had to take a nap when I got home.

The shotgun. I got it into my head that it needed cleaning even though I’ve shot fewer than a hundred rounds. And, of course, I had to do it myself, since I felt responsible for knowing what the thing looks like on the inside. It turned out that—like Humpty Dumpty—putting it back together wasn’t as easy as taking it apart. I did my best, though, and can hold my head high thinking back on Robert Pirsig’s novel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I did shotgun maintenance.

It cost more than a hundred bucks to have a gunsmith fix it for me, which consisted of putting the parts of the trigger mechanism in the right order and straightening out the magazine spring that I had twisted trying to force it into place. It reminded me of the argument I once had with my father about forcing ten pounds of shit into a five‑pound bag, but that’s another story (see Fluid As Water).

The scissors and the Gewürztraminer. I currently have house guests, including two children who love freeze pops and consume them on a regular basis. In case you’re wondering, this is California, so we’re not dealing with snow or sub‑zero temperatures. Freeze pops make perfect sense. What doesn’t make sense is using a serious pair of scissors to snip the tops off to get at the ice. That leaves sticky, wet scissors in my kitchen drawer. So the obsessive part of me bought them a pair of kiddie scissors to cut the freeze pops. No harm, no foul.

As for the Gewürztraminer, I’ve gotten into the habit of drinking it a few times a week with dinner. I like the taste even though it’s on the sweet side. It reminds me of working in my youth at Paul Masson Winery, when I would take my lunch out back behind the tasting room with a bottle of Gewürztraminer. It paired nicely with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (see Living 360°). Also, I love saying “Gewürztraminer.” If I had another kid, that’s what I would name him. I call that a win-win.

The haircut. I had planned the trip with geometric precision. My three destinations lined up on a straight line off one main road. So, I popped into the barbershop without an appointment, which I do all the time. They always accommodate me. I’ve learned that that’s a cultural thing—maybe a generational one, too. As a kid, I remember family and visitors popping in at all hours of the day. We never thought it strange or resented it. I’ve been called on it at least once here in California.

Showing up at random times means I might have to wait. On rare occasions, I even have to come back. This time, I waited about twenty minutes for one customer to finish. As I sat there, staring out the window at students on cell phones, staff members on their lunch break, and the odd professor or two, I began to feel a strange sensation. I started to feel the same way I felt years ago when I realized one of the dreadful things about teaching: year after year, the students never age, but you, the teacher, turn progressively, inexorably older.

Contrary to popular belief, being around young people did not make me feel young at all. It made me feel old. Over time, I grew to expect this in the classroom without actually getting used to it, but now—now—things were different. What I felt in the classroom was suddenly happening everywhere else. As I looked through the window, I felt that the people out there were the same, going about their routines, but I had aged. In fact, I was aging on the spot as I awaited my turn in the chair.

I’m not sure how else to describe this except to say that it was a distancing experience measured not in feet but years. But it was also a separating experience, as if watching and observing set me apart from the things taking place on the other side of that window. It was almost but not quite isolating—different but not quite uncomfortable.

When it was my turn, I thought about bringing it up, but I knew the barber’s English would not have been able to bear that kind of load, and my Vietnamese is nonexistent. So, when he asked if I wanted “the usual,” I simply nodded and settled into the chair, my thoughts turning to Gewürztraminer. I love that word.

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