Over the course of my life, I've had the privilege of having many Jewish friends. And yet, not a single one of them has ever invited me to a Seder. Last year, I realized that, because we were such good friends, they chose to spare me this "experience." I don't want to sound rude or disrespectful but the thing about Passover is that it's not...fun. Not in the least.
For those of you who don't know, my girlfriend is Jewish. We've been together for about 2 years and this year will be my second Seder. Now let me pull back just a little bit here and say that Passover isn't a completely horrible experience. In fact, last year, I was actually rather excited to go to my first Seder. In fact, I think I'll write a children's book called, "Damon's First Seder." The point is that it was a new experience for me. And I like new experiences. I mean who doesn't?
I will also say that I do like my girlfriend's family. Oh, there are a couple of characters here and there, but honestly, I challenge you to name one family that doesn't have at least two or three "colorful" characters roaming around in that family tree. But I really do think that they are all cool people. And the little nephews and cousins are just so cute.
Then there's the ritualistic aspect which I found to be fascinating. First of all, I can rock a Yarmulke. Oh yes I can. Which has boosted my confidence into making me believe that I can look good in anything. I also liked the part where everybody reads. I have absolutely no recollection of what we read or what is was about, but I liked that everyone got a chance to do it. I liked how, at one point, you had to open the door for some reason. Then there are the songs. How could I forget the beautiful songs? There is nothing in this world like a group of unenthusiastic Jewish singers.
Which brings me to my next point. It really does feel like no one wants to be there. There is very little excitement and buzz centered around this holiday. I'm sure my girlfriend's family isn't indicative of how all Jews run their Seders. But I couldn't help but repeatedly ask myself the question, "If no one's really into this, then why are they doing it?" I mean you'd think they would have made an attempt to put on a show for the new Goy. (I just wanted to show off my Yiddish vocabulary. Also, for full disclosure, I had to Google the correct spelling of Yarmulke.)
But here's the kicker. The ultimate reason why I'm completely dreading this trip and the few hours that will be robbed from my life is this: The food at the Seder is God-awful. I mean come on. This is the 21st century people. There is an array of wonderful new spices just begging to be used. Actually, the brisket is okay. But please do not get me started on the Gefilte Fish. I took one bite of that horrendous concoction and couldn't even pretend to be polite about it. All I could ask was, "Why?! Why?! Why?! Why are they doing this? Why is this on the table?"
Finally, what really just bakes my cookies is the fact that the Seder is supposed to last for TWO DAYS. They go through this painful series of events two days in a row. I have just a little bit of advice for the Jewish people. I'm not saying that the Christians have it right, but there is one thing that Goyim do that just makes things a little easier: SPACE THAT SHIT OUT. You really can't do back-to-back family gatherings. Everybody's family is a little nuts. That's why you've got to break it up just a little bit. You notice that Christmas isn't the day after Thanksgiving. In fact, I personally think a month in between in cutting it close. And you damn sure don't see Easter and Christmas right on top of each other. That would be shear madness.
Anyway, because I am not one of the Chosen people, I get to take a pass on the first day. And my girlfriend, through guilt by association, is also entitled to take advantage of the first day off. This will actually be the first time in her life that she's done that. Here's the part I don't get: Instead of jumping for joy at the one day reprise, she's feeling incredibly guilty. I've always thought that the concept of "Jewish guilt" was just a horrible stereotype. It turns out that it's actually true. It also turns out that it's an incredibly powerful force. It has managed to bring families together to suffer through an incredibly mediocre meal for thousands of years. And it is now a part of my life. (Unless I could somehow convince everyone in her family to just decide that they're Italian)
But I've made my choice. I'm living my life with my Jewish girlfriend and all of the customs, rituals, overwhelming guilt, and the annual feast that comes with it. I guess I'll just have to suffer through it: what with the loving her and all. But I will tell you this: I will have my revenge. One day, when she least expects it, I will drag her to a Kwanzaa celebration.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Why do I hate my gym?
So maybe hate is a bit strong of a word. The fact of the matter is that there are many aspects of my new gym that I enjoy tremendously. For starters, I only pay $20 a month. You can't beat that with a stick. (I've tried. It can't be done.) Secondly, I get unlimited guest passes which means that my girlfriend (WWIHS) and I can work out together for one low price. Also, it is ridiculously close to my home. Now in order to assure you that this is not a commercial for my gym, I will not mention its name. (If they'd like to work out some sort of financial arrangement for my endorsement, that's another story.)
But before I delve into the "annoyances" with my gym, I will give you a brief yet crucial summary on my history with gyms in general. (Well brief may be the wrong word as well. Let's just see what happens...together) I used to be quite the gym rat. In fact, when I was in high school, it's what me and my geek friends did to fill the void of a vacuous social life. (I know some of those very friends are reading this and all I can say is that you know it's true. Just accept it.) I also, as I've mentioned before, used to be an above average athlete in those days. Hence, it behooved me to get into the gym consistently.
After high school, I went to college and, while my official playing days had come to an end, I still maintained an avid interest in staying in shape and was a frequent visitor of the college weight room. It was there that I learned that all of the weight room etiquette that I learned in high school still applied in college. Everyone is there to improve themselves in some way or another. Everyone is supportive of each other whether they are overtly screaming at their friend to give them one more rep, or subtly recognizing that the scrawny dweeb has just as much right to be in the gym as the hulking football player. There were no judgements allowed and everyone was allowed to work out with their own style and pace. It was, dare I say, a community.
Naturally, after I graduated college and didn't have the benefit of free facilities, the amount of time I spent in the gym declined dramatically over the years. That was until I found a really cheap, no frills, 24-hour gym in Chelsea. I was returning to my people. The supportive crew that would cheer me on and help me improve myself. Unfortunately, nothing could have been further from the truth. I'll have to take some time and go through the catalog of my life choices, but I think that was the worst possible decision that I have ever made.
It started with the decision to enlist the services of one of their personal trainers. Big mistake. This guy was about 5'5" tall and an aspiring bodybuilder. (Can you say compensating? I knew you could.) He naturally assumed that every man that he trained was interested looking as bulky as they possibly could. He said to me, "Because your so tall, it's going to be difficult for you to look big. Plus your body will only put on but so much weight naturally. If you'd like to go bigger then you'd have to look into (are you ready for this?) steroids." STEROIDS?! WHAT THE FUCK?! Why is that in the conversation? Why didn't I run from this man?
But I stuck with him anyway because I figured that despite his obvious mental defects, he probably had some very useful information to share with me. I felt that I could filter out the crazy and use the good stuff. It was a very good plan until some time during the middle of the second training session when, due to the rigorousness of the work out and my poor eating habits, I promptly ran into the bathroom and vomited into a trash can. (At least I missed the walls) That, my friends, was the last time I used a personal trainer.
What put me over the edge in terms of using that gym entirely was caused by a different psychopath altogether. I would work out at really late times to avoid the rush. Unfortunately, Mr. Psycho Man had the exact same philosophy. It started out pleasantly enough. A couple of tips here and there. But then it just became overwhelmingly annoying. He too, was an aspiring bodybuilder at a towering 5'7" tall. He would constantly talk about workout routines. So much so that I didn't have time to actually work out. Top that off with the fact that he was incapable of picking up any of the customary social cues that you and I have mastered over the years. A phrase like, "Oh well, I guess I better get back to working out," just didn't seem to register with this guy. And let's face it, working out is not the most fun thing in the world for a lot of people. And if the gym that you're going to is filled with annoying people, there really isn't going to be a lot of incentive to keep going. As a result, I simply stopped going and that was the end of any involvement I had with any gym ever again.
That is, until recently. I've got my new cheap gym with some decent equipment. I've got my girlfriend who is willing to go with me during the weird times that I feel comfortable going. Everything is in place to stick with it.
There's only one slight problem. People are assholes.
The supportive and nurturing environment that I was accustomed to over the years just does not exist anymore. And no matter how late or early I get to the gym, I will encounter some weirdo. It is simply unavoidable. And the staff clearly doesn't give a fuck. They refuse to enforce the very basic policies of my "enlightened" gym.
It breaks down like this: There's a free weight area which looks a little like a prison yard. I hate to say that but it's true. I'm sure those guys are all very nice, but I'm afraid to go over there. Then there are the machines which are a little more communal. Both men and women use them and they're set up in a way that allows you to have a little privacy at each machine. There's the Cardio area which contains no pretense whatsoever. Last but not least, there's the Circuit Training area. This is where you can hit all of the major muscles in 30 minutes. It is also, somewhat hidden behind all of the Cardio machines.
Back in the day, I wouldn't have been caught dead in that area. That's not where the real athletes worked out. That's where the sorority chicks worked out. Where people who didn't know anything worked out. But alas, it is now the place where I work out because I just ain't got that kind of time. Nor do I have the desire to spend hours trying to chisel my calf muscles into that perfect shape.
So my question is, why the hell are the muscle bound freaks making there way over to the Circuit area? The machines aren't any different than the machines in the general area. In fact, the machines in the general area are probably better. And, like I said before, it's on the other side of the gym so it's definitely not convenient. So why are they camping out at these machines and busting out 5 sets on that chest press machine? Why must they put the weights at the highest possible setting and then do arm curls? Who are they trying to impress? And most importantly, why are they disrupting my very simple and non-threatening 30-minute workout?
Yes, I realize that those were a lot of questions not just one.
The other night, there was one guy that was just sitting on the leg press machine. He would do a set and then camp out until he was ready to start again. He literally spent about 15 minutes on a machine that you should only be on for about 2 minutes tops. And showed absolutely no regard for the fact that other people were waiting. Then there was this other guy. He was about 5'6" and had the really huge upper body sitting on top of skinny legs. (Are you sensing the theme yet?) He asked me if he could work out with me on the rowing machine. I had just completed one of TWO sets. Back the fuck off. (Note: Actual words I said were, "I just have one more set.")
So there really is no lesson to this week's blog. At least none that I can see. All I know is that the biggest problem with doing something that you might actually enjoy is that other people tend to get in the way of that. No matter how late I show up at the gym, there's always at least one meat head that has to use THAT machine. The one that I want to use. However, I will not be deterred. I will stick to my routine as best as I possibly can and will not let the stupidity of others detract from it. I am not the "complain to the staff" type and even if I were, I don't think it would do much good. Nor am I the type to lecture a complete stranger on proper gym etiquette. So, until I can finance my own private gym, I will simply suffer fools gladly. And periodically I'll add in a, "Move, Bitch. Get out the way. Get out the way, Bitch. Get out the way."
But before I delve into the "annoyances" with my gym, I will give you a brief yet crucial summary on my history with gyms in general. (Well brief may be the wrong word as well. Let's just see what happens...together) I used to be quite the gym rat. In fact, when I was in high school, it's what me and my geek friends did to fill the void of a vacuous social life. (I know some of those very friends are reading this and all I can say is that you know it's true. Just accept it.) I also, as I've mentioned before, used to be an above average athlete in those days. Hence, it behooved me to get into the gym consistently.
After high school, I went to college and, while my official playing days had come to an end, I still maintained an avid interest in staying in shape and was a frequent visitor of the college weight room. It was there that I learned that all of the weight room etiquette that I learned in high school still applied in college. Everyone is there to improve themselves in some way or another. Everyone is supportive of each other whether they are overtly screaming at their friend to give them one more rep, or subtly recognizing that the scrawny dweeb has just as much right to be in the gym as the hulking football player. There were no judgements allowed and everyone was allowed to work out with their own style and pace. It was, dare I say, a community.
Naturally, after I graduated college and didn't have the benefit of free facilities, the amount of time I spent in the gym declined dramatically over the years. That was until I found a really cheap, no frills, 24-hour gym in Chelsea. I was returning to my people. The supportive crew that would cheer me on and help me improve myself. Unfortunately, nothing could have been further from the truth. I'll have to take some time and go through the catalog of my life choices, but I think that was the worst possible decision that I have ever made.
It started with the decision to enlist the services of one of their personal trainers. Big mistake. This guy was about 5'5" tall and an aspiring bodybuilder. (Can you say compensating? I knew you could.) He naturally assumed that every man that he trained was interested looking as bulky as they possibly could. He said to me, "Because your so tall, it's going to be difficult for you to look big. Plus your body will only put on but so much weight naturally. If you'd like to go bigger then you'd have to look into (are you ready for this?) steroids." STEROIDS?! WHAT THE FUCK?! Why is that in the conversation? Why didn't I run from this man?
But I stuck with him anyway because I figured that despite his obvious mental defects, he probably had some very useful information to share with me. I felt that I could filter out the crazy and use the good stuff. It was a very good plan until some time during the middle of the second training session when, due to the rigorousness of the work out and my poor eating habits, I promptly ran into the bathroom and vomited into a trash can. (At least I missed the walls) That, my friends, was the last time I used a personal trainer.
What put me over the edge in terms of using that gym entirely was caused by a different psychopath altogether. I would work out at really late times to avoid the rush. Unfortunately, Mr. Psycho Man had the exact same philosophy. It started out pleasantly enough. A couple of tips here and there. But then it just became overwhelmingly annoying. He too, was an aspiring bodybuilder at a towering 5'7" tall. He would constantly talk about workout routines. So much so that I didn't have time to actually work out. Top that off with the fact that he was incapable of picking up any of the customary social cues that you and I have mastered over the years. A phrase like, "Oh well, I guess I better get back to working out," just didn't seem to register with this guy. And let's face it, working out is not the most fun thing in the world for a lot of people. And if the gym that you're going to is filled with annoying people, there really isn't going to be a lot of incentive to keep going. As a result, I simply stopped going and that was the end of any involvement I had with any gym ever again.
That is, until recently. I've got my new cheap gym with some decent equipment. I've got my girlfriend who is willing to go with me during the weird times that I feel comfortable going. Everything is in place to stick with it.
There's only one slight problem. People are assholes.
The supportive and nurturing environment that I was accustomed to over the years just does not exist anymore. And no matter how late or early I get to the gym, I will encounter some weirdo. It is simply unavoidable. And the staff clearly doesn't give a fuck. They refuse to enforce the very basic policies of my "enlightened" gym.
It breaks down like this: There's a free weight area which looks a little like a prison yard. I hate to say that but it's true. I'm sure those guys are all very nice, but I'm afraid to go over there. Then there are the machines which are a little more communal. Both men and women use them and they're set up in a way that allows you to have a little privacy at each machine. There's the Cardio area which contains no pretense whatsoever. Last but not least, there's the Circuit Training area. This is where you can hit all of the major muscles in 30 minutes. It is also, somewhat hidden behind all of the Cardio machines.
Back in the day, I wouldn't have been caught dead in that area. That's not where the real athletes worked out. That's where the sorority chicks worked out. Where people who didn't know anything worked out. But alas, it is now the place where I work out because I just ain't got that kind of time. Nor do I have the desire to spend hours trying to chisel my calf muscles into that perfect shape.
So my question is, why the hell are the muscle bound freaks making there way over to the Circuit area? The machines aren't any different than the machines in the general area. In fact, the machines in the general area are probably better. And, like I said before, it's on the other side of the gym so it's definitely not convenient. So why are they camping out at these machines and busting out 5 sets on that chest press machine? Why must they put the weights at the highest possible setting and then do arm curls? Who are they trying to impress? And most importantly, why are they disrupting my very simple and non-threatening 30-minute workout?
Yes, I realize that those were a lot of questions not just one.
The other night, there was one guy that was just sitting on the leg press machine. He would do a set and then camp out until he was ready to start again. He literally spent about 15 minutes on a machine that you should only be on for about 2 minutes tops. And showed absolutely no regard for the fact that other people were waiting. Then there was this other guy. He was about 5'6" and had the really huge upper body sitting on top of skinny legs. (Are you sensing the theme yet?) He asked me if he could work out with me on the rowing machine. I had just completed one of TWO sets. Back the fuck off. (Note: Actual words I said were, "I just have one more set.")
So there really is no lesson to this week's blog. At least none that I can see. All I know is that the biggest problem with doing something that you might actually enjoy is that other people tend to get in the way of that. No matter how late I show up at the gym, there's always at least one meat head that has to use THAT machine. The one that I want to use. However, I will not be deterred. I will stick to my routine as best as I possibly can and will not let the stupidity of others detract from it. I am not the "complain to the staff" type and even if I were, I don't think it would do much good. Nor am I the type to lecture a complete stranger on proper gym etiquette. So, until I can finance my own private gym, I will simply suffer fools gladly. And periodically I'll add in a, "Move, Bitch. Get out the way. Get out the way, Bitch. Get out the way."
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Why can't I get a decent haircut?
A very good friend of mine once told me a joke that he heard from a comedian many moons ago. "I've never had a good haircut. The good haircut comes in about two weeks later." Meaning that it starts to look good after your hair has grown a little bit. This joke seems appropriate this week because I've just gotten my haircut and it looks "alright" and "fine" but it's not "wow." In fact, rarely have I been 100% ecstatic about how my hair has turned out after it has been professionally coiffed. And this phenomenon has gone on for years. Allow me to take you on a journey.
It starts with the fact that children are incredibly cruel to each other. They say and do terrible things in order to assert their dominance. (Adults are the same way, we just try to be a little more subtle about it. Most of the time anyway.) Add to this fact that my family didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up and the maintenance of the proper length of my hair was never high on the priority list. Which was fine with me, except for the relentless comments that came whenever my hair got a little too long for the establishment's comfort. The most popular of them being the derogatory term for an Afro known as a "bush." So periodically, I had to walk around with my "bush," suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous put-downs until the family decided that enough was enough and made the effort to take me to the barber shop.
Which brings me to the flip side of the story. I can't stand barber shops. I really can't. It's like they took every person in the planet who makes me feel socially uncomfortable and put them in one small place for me to enjoy the pleasure of their company for about an hour or so. Longer if there's a line. To this day, I still get a mild panic attack every time I have to go into a barber shop. It truly is the opposite of a fun experience.
For one thing, I've always been a larger than average person in the height department. So whenever I would walk into a barber shop, I was greeted with expressions of amazement. On top of that, any respectable barber shop in the "hood" will have a barber who is a notorious ball-buster. So not only would I walk in with everyone in the place staring at me, but I would also be greeted with some boisterous comment from the ring leader like, (all together now) "You must play basketball." You then couple that with the fact that, since my hair was usually pretty long when I did go to the barber's, there was always some commentary on that issue as well. I don't mind people having opinions, I just don't need to hear every single one of them.
Next is the order in which people are served. It's not like there's a ticket that you take and then they call you in an orderly manner. Au contraire. You have to bust in and demand who is the last person in line and then claim your spot. Otherwise complications may arise. Like the time I nearly got into a fight with some guy over who was supposed to be next. It didn't get physical because I am an artist not a fighter, but I did learn a valuable lesson about barber shop etiquette.
Then there's the actual process of getting the haircut. In my humble opinion, it is the equivalent of a slow form of torture. It just takes a really long time. And I'm always afraid for some bizarre reason that the barber is just going to stop in the middle of the haircut, kick me out into the street, and leave me there. I'd be standing in the street with half of my hair neatly cut and the other half looking shaggy. Like some jacked-up art school student.
Secondly, I've always been against having the barber "shape up" the front of my hairline. That's basically when he takes a razor or the clippers and makes a straight line going across my forehead. I personally find it cliche. I also don't like feeling the barber's knuckles on my forehead which he does in order to steady his hand to make the line straight. It just feels creepy. As a result, every time I go to a new barber, I have to argue with him about keeping a natural hairline. I think this style offends them to the core because they tend to be a bit incredulous about the concept.
Lastly, it is impossible for them to get the length just right. I don't want to cut it too short because I like having hair and I like showing people that I have hair. I don't want it too long because then it's starts looking a little "Kid-n-Play." So it's a very delicate operation and I don't feel that my barber truly understands all of the nuances that go into it. Not to mention the fact that I don't actually help my cause by explaining all of these nuances that I've manufactured to the very person who can do something about it. But if they truly loved what they did, I shouldn't have to tell them. They should just know.
My current barber is a guy whose shop is literally in the same building where I live. He's a decent fellow and he does a decent job. The only problem is, I can't stand getting my hair cut from him. For one thing, he talks constantly. He never stops. If he's not talking to me, he's talking to someone else in the shop. If he's not talking to someone else in the shop, he's talking to someone on the phone. He makes 20-minute haircuts take about 35 minutes. Then there's the cavalcade of characters that make an appearance whenever I'm there. There's the guy whose always selling something from jackets and DVDs, to bottles of vodka. He's like that guy on, "Good Times," who would open his coat and display various products for sale. And then there's the other people who aren't actually waiting to get their hair cut. They just have a lot of free time on their hands.
So I will now answer the next logical question: Doggy Style. Oh, you didn't want to know my favorite sexual position. Sorry. Why do I still go to this barber shop? I still go to this barber shop because it's really close and it's never crowded. But this is the biggest reason of all: It's not pretentious or assuming.
Yes, believe it or not, barber shops can be very pretentious. I've never been big on the latest style of cut or the terminologies that go along with it. And the barber shop that's right next door to mine is filled with young barbers who are, "in the know." I went in there one time and asked for my usual cut. Half off the top, close on the sides. The barber responded with, "You want that tapered?" (Again with the tapered. Nothing good is tapered.) Instead of displaying my ignorance and asking what the hell did he mean, I said okay. It turned out to be the worst haircut of my life. Worse than the time I had this guy practically shave my head. (That's another very long story) Needless to say, I didn't go back.
So I stick with my guy. He does a decent job and every time I go in we become much better at communicating with each other. He has fully accepted my lifestyle choice of natural hairline and I have accepted that his views on men and women are "quaint" despite the misogynistic overtones. Maybe he'll even inspire a character that I will write. The important thing is that it is the most comfortable place in a tremendously uncomfortable situation. I accept them for the urban yokels that they are, and they accept me for the potential serial killer that I am. And I think that's all that any of us can ask for.
It starts with the fact that children are incredibly cruel to each other. They say and do terrible things in order to assert their dominance. (Adults are the same way, we just try to be a little more subtle about it. Most of the time anyway.) Add to this fact that my family didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up and the maintenance of the proper length of my hair was never high on the priority list. Which was fine with me, except for the relentless comments that came whenever my hair got a little too long for the establishment's comfort. The most popular of them being the derogatory term for an Afro known as a "bush." So periodically, I had to walk around with my "bush," suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous put-downs until the family decided that enough was enough and made the effort to take me to the barber shop.
Which brings me to the flip side of the story. I can't stand barber shops. I really can't. It's like they took every person in the planet who makes me feel socially uncomfortable and put them in one small place for me to enjoy the pleasure of their company for about an hour or so. Longer if there's a line. To this day, I still get a mild panic attack every time I have to go into a barber shop. It truly is the opposite of a fun experience.
For one thing, I've always been a larger than average person in the height department. So whenever I would walk into a barber shop, I was greeted with expressions of amazement. On top of that, any respectable barber shop in the "hood" will have a barber who is a notorious ball-buster. So not only would I walk in with everyone in the place staring at me, but I would also be greeted with some boisterous comment from the ring leader like, (all together now) "You must play basketball." You then couple that with the fact that, since my hair was usually pretty long when I did go to the barber's, there was always some commentary on that issue as well. I don't mind people having opinions, I just don't need to hear every single one of them.
Next is the order in which people are served. It's not like there's a ticket that you take and then they call you in an orderly manner. Au contraire. You have to bust in and demand who is the last person in line and then claim your spot. Otherwise complications may arise. Like the time I nearly got into a fight with some guy over who was supposed to be next. It didn't get physical because I am an artist not a fighter, but I did learn a valuable lesson about barber shop etiquette.
Then there's the actual process of getting the haircut. In my humble opinion, it is the equivalent of a slow form of torture. It just takes a really long time. And I'm always afraid for some bizarre reason that the barber is just going to stop in the middle of the haircut, kick me out into the street, and leave me there. I'd be standing in the street with half of my hair neatly cut and the other half looking shaggy. Like some jacked-up art school student.
Secondly, I've always been against having the barber "shape up" the front of my hairline. That's basically when he takes a razor or the clippers and makes a straight line going across my forehead. I personally find it cliche. I also don't like feeling the barber's knuckles on my forehead which he does in order to steady his hand to make the line straight. It just feels creepy. As a result, every time I go to a new barber, I have to argue with him about keeping a natural hairline. I think this style offends them to the core because they tend to be a bit incredulous about the concept.
Lastly, it is impossible for them to get the length just right. I don't want to cut it too short because I like having hair and I like showing people that I have hair. I don't want it too long because then it's starts looking a little "Kid-n-Play." So it's a very delicate operation and I don't feel that my barber truly understands all of the nuances that go into it. Not to mention the fact that I don't actually help my cause by explaining all of these nuances that I've manufactured to the very person who can do something about it. But if they truly loved what they did, I shouldn't have to tell them. They should just know.
My current barber is a guy whose shop is literally in the same building where I live. He's a decent fellow and he does a decent job. The only problem is, I can't stand getting my hair cut from him. For one thing, he talks constantly. He never stops. If he's not talking to me, he's talking to someone else in the shop. If he's not talking to someone else in the shop, he's talking to someone on the phone. He makes 20-minute haircuts take about 35 minutes. Then there's the cavalcade of characters that make an appearance whenever I'm there. There's the guy whose always selling something from jackets and DVDs, to bottles of vodka. He's like that guy on, "Good Times," who would open his coat and display various products for sale. And then there's the other people who aren't actually waiting to get their hair cut. They just have a lot of free time on their hands.
So I will now answer the next logical question: Doggy Style. Oh, you didn't want to know my favorite sexual position. Sorry. Why do I still go to this barber shop? I still go to this barber shop because it's really close and it's never crowded. But this is the biggest reason of all: It's not pretentious or assuming.
Yes, believe it or not, barber shops can be very pretentious. I've never been big on the latest style of cut or the terminologies that go along with it. And the barber shop that's right next door to mine is filled with young barbers who are, "in the know." I went in there one time and asked for my usual cut. Half off the top, close on the sides. The barber responded with, "You want that tapered?" (Again with the tapered. Nothing good is tapered.) Instead of displaying my ignorance and asking what the hell did he mean, I said okay. It turned out to be the worst haircut of my life. Worse than the time I had this guy practically shave my head. (That's another very long story) Needless to say, I didn't go back.
So I stick with my guy. He does a decent job and every time I go in we become much better at communicating with each other. He has fully accepted my lifestyle choice of natural hairline and I have accepted that his views on men and women are "quaint" despite the misogynistic overtones. Maybe he'll even inspire a character that I will write. The important thing is that it is the most comfortable place in a tremendously uncomfortable situation. I accept them for the urban yokels that they are, and they accept me for the potential serial killer that I am. And I think that's all that any of us can ask for.
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