ME: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

2/21/2008 4:44 PM

Last night, I actually paid for one of the worst haircuts I've ever had. Yes, I am being overly dramatic, but it really IS a bad haircut. I mean, even when I used to cut my hair myself, chopping indiscriminately at fuzzy ends and clipper cutting the sides so as to have a "cool" looking mullet do (I was young once and pulled it off quite nicely, if I do say so myself), I still did better than this lady who took a whack at it, literally, yesterday. And leave it to me to feel sorry for her, telling her that it looks nice, that she did a good job, and then giving her a tip on top of it. It's just that she spent so much time cutting that I didn't know what else to do. Complain? Give her suggestions for improvement? Have her finish what she started? No. All I could do was throw on my cap and leave smiling, trying to mask my disgust and resentment, vowing to never have my hair cut by her again.

I knew it was a bad sign when, before she even looked at my hair, she started making small talk in some indistinguishable foreign accent about how much she liked my watch. You're a hairdresser; there is no need to notice and make conversation about my accessories. I thought to myself, she's trying to butter me up. Either she wants a good tip, or she has very few clients. I now believe the latter to be the case. When she finally focused on my hair, she ran her fingers through it, inspecting the hairline, the cowlicks, the varying lengths. I explained what I wanted simply, short on the sides and back, and leave the top long, just trim it a little bit. Good grief, I don't have a lot of hair as it is, so I didn't consider these to be inadequate directions. She said, oh yes, that would be perfect, that cut would suit my face marvelously, although I didn't ask for her opinion, nor wanted it. Just follow my instructions and cut my hair! That's when I noticed her dyed reddish-auburn hair, which didn't look "bad" per say, but it did look a little "off", clumsy, dented, choppy, frizzled, for lack of better words to describe the indescribable.

I should have gotten up right then, said, oops, I completely forgot that I have dinner plans, I'll have to come back another day. But I didn't, mostly because I REALLY needed a haircut. I mean, the hair on the back of my neck could be pulled into pigtails, it had gotten so out of control. It was absolutely time to be neatened up, and, you know, a new, nice, fresh haircut can make you feel like a new man. So I calmed my fears, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and trusted.

Out came the scissors, another bad sign, for me anyway, because when I say that I want it short on the sides and back, I mean that I want it SHORT and EVEN, like only clippers can do. It's my fault that I didn't say something then, but in my defense, I have had my hair cut before where the hairdresser didn't use clippers and ended up doing an amazing job getting it short and even, so again I just trusted her. Carefully, she pulled out a stretch of hair and cut it SO SLOWLY that it was like she was cutting a line drawn on a piece of paper. Every cut she made was slow and seeming so precise, like she was an artist working on a sculpture. Her face was tense, lips pursed, eyes squinting, and she dropped small talk altogether for silent concentration. She pulled my head to the side, pushed my head down, pulled my head up, directed every position of my head for her cutting expertise. Then she flapped at my ears with her comb, and brushed off hair into my lap. From her satisfied expression, I knew she was done with the sides and back. Yes, it did look a tad shorter, in some places, although I could still see some hair sticking out looking as though it had been completely missed. I thought to myself, surely she hasn't overlooked the unevenness. She is so intense; maybe she is going to go back over it all. Needless to say, I kept quiet.

At that moment, my hair didn't look horrible. It was longer on the top, shorter, albeit uneven, on the sides and back. I could have lived with it. But then she began to work on the top, pushing my head down so she could face it directly! Have you ever? Personally, I have never had anyone cut my hair head-on like that before. But, I thought, maybe that's just as good a way, what do I know? Suddenly, she began chopping, and huge chunks of hair began cascading into my lap, big chunks of too long hair, the length almost an inch. I wanted to see what she was doing, but she held my head down, as if drowning me under water, and continued to prune the top of my head. As my lap filled with my brown and some white, gray (yes, it's TRUE!) hair, my face flushed with red annoyance and deep concern. Still, she had already started and had my head somewhat pinned down, so I could do nothing but let her continue and watch more and more fall onto the black salon cape covering me.

When I looked up, I think she saw the shock in my eyes, because she immediately grabbed some pomade and began trying to style it, pushing hair this way and that, pulling up the front and swirling her hand around over the top. I didn't want to believe the mirror. This crazy lady had cut my hair shorter on the top than the sides and back! Okay, so the top is even, but it is SHORTER than the sides and back! WHO in the world styles his hair that way on purpose other than the monks you see in pictures who shave a circle on the tops of their heads? What's worse, she was done, finished. Her masterpiece was complete, and she wasn't going to go back over anything. "There you go, all cleaned up and looking much better," she said, "You know, I think you look more like yourself." Uh, what? She removed the cape, as well as the towel around my neck, letting all the cut hair fall onto my sweater and down my back. I thought, this lady KNOWS she gave me a bad haircut and is too flustered to even pull out a neck duster. She just wants me out of here ASAP! Noticing hair all over me, she grabbed the hair dryer and started blowing the hair off of me. "Yes, well, it's nice, looks good, good job, thanks," I lied, getting up, fearful of her touching my head again. "Don't you want to see the back," she asked pulling out a mirror, and I looked. "Now, what you need to do is dry the sides forward like this; see how that looks, and then at the crown, just swirl it around so it will lay down nicely. See?" I wanted to roll my eyes and tell her to 'brush' off. I have been styling my hair since I was a kid, really, so I think I know exactly what to do and what I think looks nice.

I don't know what gave me away, maybe I did roll my eyes, although I don't think so. Maybe I'm not very good at masking my feelings, everything shows up right in my eyes and on my face. Whatever it was, I could tell that she became a little angry and annoyed with me. She frowned deeply, looked me directly in the eyes, and left me with the parting words you never want to hear from your hairdresser, "Really, you know, it's ONLY hair."

MY only hair, indeed.

ME: Soul Food Comforts

2/15/2008 4:21 PM

For a smalltown, Arkansan boy, unbuckled from the Bible belt, now living in the big, "sexy" New York City, there is nothing more comforting, especially on a cold, drizzling evening, than heading into a warm, restaurant to gobble down some good ole southern cooking. You must know what I mean. If you are not from the south, picture these homemade delicacies: mashed potatoes smothered in dark gravy, baked macaroni in creamy velveeta cheese, barbequed red ribs, fresh lima beans, fried chicken legs, cornbread full of kernels, hot fried green okra, sweet candied yams, buttermilk biscuits lavished in white gravy, pork chops done just so, buttered corn steaming, sufferin' succotash, yes, everything that might be bad for the body and heart yet so DEFINITELY good for the soul. And in the Big Apple, if you have a hankering for southern cooking, it rightly comes in the form of "soul food" at some of the best soul food restaurants in the Northeast. You just have to find them.

Now I have lived in New York for over 11 years (I know, I can hardly believe it myself), so you can rest assured that I have sought out many, many Southern & Soul Food restaurants in the city. Let's see. . . In Harlem, I've been to Miss Mamie's Spoonbread Too to have banana bread pudding as my entree, Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, where I always leave way too full, burping and teetering on sweet iced tea, and Manna's Soul Food & Salad Bar, just like any other salad bar, except all the fixings will have no trouble putting meat on your bones. At Astor Place, Acme Bar and Grill has the BEST fried okra in town, although not nearly as good as my grandmother's of course. In midtown, there's Virgil's Real BBQ, frequented by corporate types of all sorts, and in the Village, you can get the absolutely best southern breakfast at the Pink Teacup. Just off of Union Square, I head to Chat-n-Chew, and on the Upper West Side to Rack and Soul or Shark Bar, which offers the most delicious southern cuisine while dining in a very posh ambiance. I COULD go on, but I think you get the idea. Yes, I have ventured out and about to find my comfort food and have not been disappointed in the least. (No, it's not home, but it's pretty darn close!)

So when my friend, Nathan, and I made plans to have dinner together on Wednesday night, I was surprised that when he suggested we go to Sylvia's, one of the most famous Soul Food restaurants in Harlem and in the city, I realized that in all the time I have been here, I had never been there! I mean, they call Sylvia "The Queen of Soul Food" for grits' sake!

The rain that had continued all day had died down considerably, it was only misting a little, so we walked the blocks across 125th Street instead of catching the bus. There "she" sat on Lenox/Malcom X Boulevard between 126th and 127th with lights all aglow, inviting us to come on in and have some supper. We went in and sat at the bar to wait for Nathan's partner, Leslye, and ordered the fried catfish fingers, which were quite good. It's EXTREMELY hard to find GOOD catfish in the city. Absolutely nothing can compare to the amazingly tasty catfish you can get at an Arkansas fish fry, where people from all over the community pop by a farmer's shop and lunch on freshly fried catfish and homemade hushpuppies. (My mouth is watering just thinking about it, and I've already eaten!) Once Leslye got there, we sat at a table near the front and ordered. The place was packed with people, including the famous Sylvia herself, who sat off at a side table, dressed in a jacket covered in the Sylvia's logo, ate smothered meatloaf and collard greens and observed her patrons, occasionally having her picture made with a fan. She watched the tables so closely, I wondered if she was trying to determine what the looks on our faces meant as we took big bites. I had the fried chicken, buttered corn, and macaroni and cheese, along with their special sweet iced tea mixed with lemonade that they call an "uptown". Overall, it was pretty good, but I must confess that I have had much better in the city. No offense, Sylvia. Still, the home cooking, along with great company, certainly made me smile and think back to Arkansas, gratefully remembering all the good things and good food.

Unfortunately, once I arrived at my apartment and raced through the door down the hall to the bathroom pulling at my belt, I was also able to reminisce about the first time I had to have a spoonful of that pink stuff that I thought tasted like bubblegum.

Is home where the heart is or where the stomach is moody?

ME: Hoping for Hope

February 13, 2008 - Wednesday

There's something that has always annoyed me. Beginning in childhood, society immediately began training me to be a winner, a fearless hero triumphing over ANY situation, "fixing" or masking my emotions so that I could continue to march forward without shrinking or shirking away from a "successful" life. It told me that I was not supposed to get down, certainly not in any kind of debilitating way, and that if I did manage to lose my footing, I must immediately pick myself up, dust myself off and keep on going. There did not seem to be any middle ground in this, no waiting or lingering period; either I won or I failed. Either I rose above or was defeated. And once this outcome was determined, it was considered final.

I guess it is because of this notion that society also deems there is a specific time limit for being sad and/or depressed and a time limit for maintaining sympathy of another's dire situation. In the case of grief in the U.S.A. workplace, usually three paid days of bereavement are given an employee (with a full-time job) if an immediate family member dies. It's just enough time to make the necessary arrangements and be back at work being "productive". In confiding with acquaintances, I have found that the limit seems about two to three weeks of empathetic looks and "how are you doing"s before the evaporation of noticed concern. (Note, however, that friends and family are completely different and don't usually follow the unsaid time limits; therefore, they are not included in my observation here.)

In our culture, it seems subliminally asserted that once that last grain of sand drops through the hourglass and "the time" is up, no matter what grief and sadness remain in which we are covered or drowning, we are still expected to pull ourselves up and onto our feet, a smile is to light on our faces, and we are to look forward to the future, never looking back (or turn to salt). We are supposed to be alright, okay, not stuck, not defeated, for that's the only healthy way to be. And any lingering emotions should be kept private within our "back-to-normal" selves, or only discussed confidentially with a therapist. Okay, it's true that I am overly-emotional and sensitive, but is it just me or does this whole idea just seem inhuman?

So a couple of weekends ago, when I attended a retreat at a quaint little Dominican convent nestled just east of the beautiful Hudson River, with sunsets exquisite even in midst of winter with bare trees, brown ground, and ice floating near the riverbank, I was relieved to finally understand something different from what I have been taught. The retreat was called "From Loss to Community: Finding Hope in Difficult Times", and there I discovered something much more truthful and real.

Through the retreat's exercises and meditations with others who were also experiencing deep loss, I found that, ironically, sometimes one MUST be completely defeated, stretched out on the ground, limbs limp, eyes shut, tears flowing, heart broken, and breath heavy with uncontrollable sobbing, before one can really truly begin to rise from the weighty blow of sadness and grief of whatever the situation flattening one's life. Sometimes for a time, perhaps a very brief moment or a long span of rest, one must fall into the point of hopelessness, or rather, the point of simply hoping for hope, in order to discover that more hope really IS there; that hope has always been there shining. Sometimes, in the darkest of days, when all one can do is look up from the deep, muddy, black hole one finds himself in during life does one REALLY begin to see the sun and find within himself that he does believe that all is NOT lost; life is NOT over. This is something we, as society, should not deem trite or weak, nor should we put a limit on its length or depth. I believe we should embrace everyone's brokenness, allow the wounds to mend in their own time, and not revel in a kind of "get over it" mantra.

I have heard "get over it" a lot in my life. Most recently, it was tossed towards me as not only advice but also a command when I protested against the war, lost a friend to AIDS, then lost my best friend to his much-too-early death. "Get over it" was taught to be the way in which I would more easily move on, the way to succeed, win. Just get over it, don't think about it, and poof, it is gone, and you are on your way. But just "getting over it" does not allow me or anyone to move through the pain, experience the grief, understand suffering, mourn loss, and heal the soul at our own pace in our own time. Just "getting over it" negates any emotion we have, which is as just and true as any part of ourselves: our eyes, ears, hands, or feet.

Speaking personally with you, I honestly found God's blessing in my not "getting over" my mom's death. At my point of exhausted extinguishment which seemed so close, when my apathy constricted me breathless, when I couldn't really muster any care for myself other than in the asking of God to "Help me", it was there, in my complete and utter surrender and defeat that I finally found God's Help and Hope. I don't believe I would have recognized it any other way. At that retreat, which I believe was heavenly sent to me, beside the frosty, flowing river, I finally understood what hoping for hope means.

I think it's like when the suffering, bleeding and dying Jesus Christ was at His "end" on the cross and, probably feeling defeated and afraid, exclaimed and asked God, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" before He breathed His last earthly breath. During that moment, the human Jesus could only hope for hope.

And God certainly did not abandon Christ, nor will God ever abandon you and me. God is a God of new beginnings. Now I see . . . and hope.

~ ~ ~

"When life descends into the pit, I must become my own candle, willingly burning myself to light up the darkness around me." - Alice Walker

"All we are asked to bear, we can bear. That is the law of spiritual life. The only hindrance to the working of this law, as of all benign laws, is fear." - Elizabeth Goudge

"When you are down to nothing, God is up to something." - Unknown