Everybody needs inspiration, even John Madden. That's right, I said John Madden. Maniac of football and tough-actin' Tinactin fame. I was half listening to a football game and writing a sonnet when I heard the dark lord of the gridiron say:
"I would like to dominate Randy Moss."
Wha? I don't know if I can work that into iambic pentameter, maybe a haiku.
See? Yeah, I was so shocked that my fingers snarled up on the keyboard, and backed up all typing traffic for the rest of the afternoon. Nevermind the rubberneck double-take whiplash. Thank God for my DVR. I called for a review of the play, and watched it again. It just seemed a little forward for John; He normally likes to draw things out. Arrows and circles, a bottle of wine, a little cuddle and some small talk, you know. On my fourth down into the replay I realized the problem: John's slushy mouth ran headlong into my inconsistent listening skills ( yeah I know, MyUnwife could have played armchair quarterback to that call.). He said "nominate." John wanted to nominate Randy Moss not "dominate" him. For what? I got nothing. I was so locked on dominating I missed the nominated part. Still, the whip-crack confusion did make for a more interesting game. Maybe they should try that: add whips, chains, and lions to the game, or would that just make it Australian football?
You know what else can be an interesting game? Getting a haircut. I looked at my touch calendar on the side there. 12 days? I keep this up, I'm gonna start rubbing against Barnes & Noble patrons on Wednesday. Probably not a good idea if I want to keep leading the writers' group. They follow almost anything I do. It'll be a store rubbing epidemic. Yeah, add that to some Starbuck's coffee, shake, and watch the froth for fun.
No, better to get a haircut. So yesterday, I dropped by my local Fantastic Sam's. It's cheap, and it promises to be fantastic. What more could I ask for? Inside, there's one girl cutting a guys hair. The rest of the chairs are empty, and nobody else is around to shear a customer, should one come in.
The speakers are playing the local "Jack" radio station. You're familiar with those right? Every city has one. If it's not Jack, it's Joe, Bob, Carl, Fred, Debby, or Nipsey. They're all the same except Nipsey; it just plays bad rhymes. Technically I suppose that makes it the same, huh? Anyway, "Jacks" play pop songs from the last 30 years in a preprogrammed random order selected to sound most appealing to you the money spending listener. It's insidious, and I wouldn't be surprised to find out there's subliminal messages playing underneath:
Listen to Jack.
Jack is your friend.
Buy a car.
Grab a knife and hack up your parents.
Listen to Jack.
Everybody needs inspiration from somewhere. There in the haircutter's den, I was looking to a cute redhead cutting a balding guy's hair. She should be done in no time.
"I'll be right with you."
Excellent. I'm rubbing my hands together, "Ok, no rush."
Everything was looking good until this other girl stepped out from the back room.
I stepped back. She inspired fear. She had obsidian hair I hadn't seen since the day's of punk, complete with Betty Page bangs. I expected it to complement her black lipstick, but she wasn't wearing any. Her face was makeup free. That was fine, it didn't make her unattractive, It just drew my attention the two studs sticking through her nose. They were small tasteful gold things that reminded me of a set of cufflinks I own. I'd have looked for a monogram, but she might not appreciate me studying her nose. She had a look in her eye that I can't explain, but the word "forbidding" does come to mind.
"You just need a haircut?" says the evil Raveness.
"That depends, when is Belle free?" No, I didn't say that. I didn't want my arm ripped off. Sure, it qualifies as touch, but not what I was looking for. I'd like to use my arm for the powers of good, and touch again. "Yes." is the only word allowed across my disciplined lips.
She leads me to a chair, listens as I explain how I want my hair to look, and begins her interpretive scissor dance. The motion draws my gaze the griffin tattooed to her bicep. As her arms sweep and dive through my hair, the griffin comes to life, like one of those 3D pictures I used to find inside a Cracker Jack Box. You remember those; you'd pivot the furrowed cardboard, and the light would refract, giving the illusion of motion. Same thing here: this arm creature lunged at my ear like I was a lonely sheep. Each dive threatening to plunge a beak into my flesh.
"So are you married?"
What?
I've had enough haircuts. I know the realm of stylist small talk. Job, weather, hobbies, and mild flirting. "Are you married" doesn't appear on any of those lists. I might have been more concerned by the question, but I was looking for anything to keep my mind off the beast in the mirror.
"Well sort of. My wife is divorcing me."
"Oh. Should I congratulate you or say I'm sorry?" She spins the chair and stops it with a leg to work my neck.
I'm looking across to the redhead. My eyes say "Help me," but she's a carnival ride operator inspecting the wheel of death. She ignores my pleas and watches for the next rider. She must have seen the hand rubbing thing.
"Well, it was her idea. I didn't want this, but I'm not gonna hold her captive."
"Right, you can't keep somebody around if they don't want to stay."
Oh thank God! You don't know how relieved I was to hear her say that.
"Did you have any children?"
"No. I wanted kids, but now I'm glad we didn't have them. I wouldn't want to put them through this."
"Yeah. That's kind of like my ex-boyfriend and I." She spins me back to the mirror; the chair jerks to a stop.
Now she goes into this long story about a horrible breakup. I'd tell you, but I blocked that part of the haircut out. See, she's the type of girl who gets real animate as she unloads personal baggage. That would be fine, but I think this ex really pissed her off. Scissors and hair are flying everywhere. The nasal studs are alight with molten fury. The griffon is gyring downward, all I see is beak and talon. Everything else is motion blurry
Caw caw! I can't tell if that's the monster arm or the raging harpy attached to it.
Rage, hair, flurry, motion. I'm getting sick. She's holding clippers. They dive into my brow. A clip and a rip trims them up. Thank God, I thought she was going for the eyes. The story ends with the boyfriend on the lawn. I didn't ask if he's breathing. Please don't make me an accomplice! No reason to stalk me down after I leave.
"Look ok?"
"Oh, yes! It's better than it's looked in a long time." She brushed me down, I tipped her well, and fled.
I'm standing by my car, and I hear her call "Robert!"
Oh no! She knows my name!
She's outside the shop, and she's coming for me. I jab the button on the key fob, and nothing happens.
Again!
Again nothing!
Again!
Still nothing!
Oh no! I've seen this movie!
Now she's caught up with me. It's too late! I can't go anywhere. "You forgot your credit card. I thought about buying gas, but decided not to."
Oh crap. "Th-thank you." I take my card and slide it into my wallet.
She smiles and then returns to her lair.
Inspiration. We all need it, even John Madden. I'm so inspired now, that if my credit card comes back with an extra gas bill, I'll quietly pay it.
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