UnCut Dope - A Blog - Stories from the Barber Chair
HOT DOG. HAMBURGER. ROLLING PERMS, AND OTHER VITAL LESSONS FROM BARBER SCHOOL.
Today began like all the others.
My eyes opened to a brand new day… with the shear terror of sunlight hitting my eyes and the recurring realization that
1. I continue to exist
2. I am, therefore, an alien on a planet in our solar system
3. I am an alien… with no retirement
4. It’s mom’s birthday. Don’t forget to call her.
I chirped my usual belligerent “NO!” at the alarm clock. It takes me a minute…. or 120…. to turn into the day’s butterfly.
6:01am.
The big dog bounded toward me and pressed his cold, clamy nose to my face. BREAKFASSSSST!!!
The little dog stepped all over my stomach as I winced from the miniature punches, “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” she seemed to snort, dancing across my unsuspecting belly.
Medium dog sat stoic by the bedroom door, hating all of us.
Shower. Coffee. Hair. Poached Egg. Wait… the hair was nowhere near the egg. I brushed my hair and THEN went into the kitchen to do a bang-up job of poaching an egg.
Keys. Wallet. Phone. Book (Currently, Anthony Bourdain’s “Kitchen Confidential”). Dogs, outside. Collars - fastened. Outdoor patio fans ON.
Annnnnnd. I’m off!!
Annnnnnd. No, I’m not.
I double-back to the house for my lunch.
Annnnnnd NOW, I’m off!
Mopac. Honk! Beep! Arrrrrgh! Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Gooooo! No! C’mon buddy…. not even the decency to give the “thank you” wave when I pump the brakes to let you into my lane? Jeez Louise!
It’s July. The Austin weather forecast is, for all intents and purposes, “Hot Soup”.
So, the crisp air conditioning of the barbershop hitting me as I enter the building feels as good as a cold beer tastes after mowing the lawn.
I love the routine of setting up for a day at the barbershop. Cleaning and adjusting the clippers. Inspecting my tools and fine-tuning them. Running a fresh towel down the shears to make sure they are polished.
(Shears are Scissors, but don’t say that to a Barber. Shears cut hair and cost a grand. Scissors cut construction paper and cost a couple bucks. This left-handed Barber will tell you that BOTH are generally made for the right handed population and that it’s a cold, lonely world out there.)
I give my attention to lining up the combs; Filling the Barbicide jar; Refilling the lather machine and stirring the contents so that the lather will be the perfect, fluffy consistency.
And, lastly, making the fresh, hot towels.
You fill a sink with hot water in which to dunk the towels before storing them in a miniature oven. The steam rises from the sink. Some days I add a splash of aftershave. Some days it’s a concoction of essential oils. Some days, both.
As the sink fills with piping hot water, you fold the towels, meticulously. Lenghtwise (hot dog) and then width-wise (hamburger).
“Hot dog / Hamburger” was the ridiculous memory device that a 19 year old bestowed upon me at Barber School to help me remember the oh-so-difficult task of folding towels. And yet, here I am saying to myself, daily: “Hotdog.” “Hamburger.” …. like some dutiful soldier; Like a prisoner unable to shake the lingering habits from the ol’ hoosegow.
The Slammer.
Barber School is what I, in all of my melodrama, imagine the clink to be; 1,500 hours of it. Hotdog. Hamburger. Hotdog. Hamburger, ad infinitum.
Barber School. Occasionally, you’re lucky enough to cut a living person’s hair or put a razor to some poor sucker’s face with the shaky, terrified hand of a freshman. Mostly, you roll perms on mannequins and learn new curse words.
But, I’m long outside of that 1,500 hour prison now. We’re at the barbershop. My combs were at right-angled attention. Towels were basking in their steam bath. Scissors, I mean Shears, were on point.
I took a “walk-in” before my first scheduled client arrived. An oilman from Houston. Young. The youngest one in his group of colleagues by a few decades, by his account. I couldn’t place his accent. He was allegedly from Austin (born and mostly raised) but had lived in Africa. Sure enough, his accent was a mash-up of Austin + Africa.
When attempting to pay for his haircut with cash, he withdrew from his wallet denominations from Tanzania.
“They are worthless to me.” he shrugged. “I can’t seem to exchange them. But, look! This is the only currency I’ve ever seen with an oil rig on the bill!”
Sure enough, there was a rig on the bill. I mildly appreciated that audacious honesty.
“Welp. It’s worthless to me, too.” I joked.
He handed me a credit card.
Then, I was off! Off to the races! It was going to be a busy day. Clippers buzzing away as my regulars took a seat at my station and I would ceremoniously ask,
“Same as last time?”
One after the other they replied, “Yep!” before settling back into our varying conversations or comfortable silences.
If you are wondering…. the answer is: No. It doesn’t get old. I don’t mind doing the same cut on the same person, every time. Hell, Einstein allegedly said he liked to move stones around because repetitive work freed up his mind for more important things.
Besides, there are plenty of other people who change it up, every time.
Cutting hair is like sculpting. Some days you are happy to be simply whittling, refining your craft…. cooperating with the wood grain. Some days, you are cutting away chunks of clay and creating something from nothing.
Also, if you are wondering… the answer is: No. I don’t mind… when people don’t want to talk during their haircut. I can chat with the best of them… and I am incredibly comfortable in silence. Most days bring a nice balance of the two.
Part II:
It was a typical day in the shop. A good day. A Friday. The music was a soundtrack for the imminent weekend. My fellow Barbers were busy and the clients were celebrating the workweek’s end.
A regular client of mine was cracking me up as he explained to me that he’d made a horrible mistake. A terrible, horrible, out-of-character, instantly regrettable mistake. He’d agreed to go on a “Mystery Tour” of downtown Austin with his girlfriend (think along the lines of the movie/board game “Clue”).
It was a “costume thing”. His friends decided to go as the characters from Scooby Doo. At some point, he had agreed.
It was not until that day (Friday) that they found out it was a 1920’s themed event. So, while everyone else would be decked out in Gatsby-esque garb of penguin suits and fringe-laden dresses… he and his friends would be showing up as Velma, Daphne, Shaggy and Scoob.
I stomach hurt from laughing.
It was while I was cutting his hair (#2 on the sides, finger-length on top. Square neckline with straight razor. No Shampoo. Medium hold product. Pays cash.)
… that I caught a glimpse of someone enter the shop from my periphery.
I love having the first chair in the Barbershop, but it comes with it the responsibility of greeting those who enter the establishment.
I’m batting about 7 out of 10, I reckon.
(Is that how batting averages work? Hell, I dunno. What I mean to say is that I do my damned-est to greet people… but sometimes all of my attention is on my client and one slips through the cracks.)
On this particular day, at this particular time, I did not see… or properly greet… the figure who entered the shop and seated himself in the waiting area.
After a moment, I got a break from my conversation and was able to stop cutting hair. I was safe to look away from the haircut without chopping off a finger.
Slumped over on the leather waiting-area bench was a homeless man, hypnotized by the air conditioning.
He met my gaze.
My 1st honest reaction was: Oh, How rude of me. I didn’t say “Hello”.
My 2nd honest reaction was: Uh-oh. A homeless guy.
I’ve lived in the city for 25 years. I called Guadalupe Street – aka “The Drag” - home in the 90s; The belly of the beast. Panhandlers asked me for money every time I left my front door step.
I have also worked service-industry jobs for over a decade and have had both wonderful and terrible experiences with the homeless community who coexists with the graveyard-shift population of Austin.
I’ve seen a homeless man pay back an $80 cash loan to a bartender friend, a mound of crumpled bills that had been slowly tucked away to pay back his debt.
I’ve also been screamed at when I gave someone my lunch,
“I’D RATHER HAVE A JOINT!” they shrieked, throwing the hoagie to the cement.
(I was broke, 18, a waitress at Kerbey Lane, and really wanted that got-damn sandwich.)
In other words…. I’m no dummy. My overall take-away is that mental health and addiction is often behind the curtain. I have learned to proceed with empathy and caution.
I greeted the man who entered the shop and asked him how I could help. He began to speak, but I had to explain that I am hard of hearing (I am). I asked him to come closer.
He did.
He explained that times were tough. He was in a pinch….
I bristled, momentarily; expecting to hear the typical Walmart-parking-lot-scam pleading for $1.65 in gas money to get is pregnant wife to Houston. He had a flat tire. Yada yada.
But, he didn’t quite say that.
He asked if he could work. Sweep floors. Anything.
I had a client in my chair. Honestly, I didn’t know what to do. In my bartending days, they frowned upon us letting people sweep for cash because they would surely come back every night…. like moths to a light.
It wasn’t my place to offer this guy a job.
My client… (remember the guy in the chair who was going to the Clue – Mystery – Party thing dressed as Scooby Doo) piped up,
“Hey man. It’s ROT rally this weekend down on 6th. Big biker rally. The bars are going to be very busy and could probably use some help sweeping and taking out trash.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The man nodded.
“Yes. I’ve tried that, sir. They keep saying they don’t need help.”
He paused,
“It’s probably because I’m so disgusting.”
My. Heart. Sank.
The weathered homeless man gathered up his bag, thanked us, and kindly left.
It bothered me a great deal. It bothered both of us, my client and I.
I finished up the haircut. Scooby Doo left. I began my ritual of cleaning. I checked my text messages for appointment-requests and the usual business communication.
My next customer was bogged down at work. He apologized, but needed to reschedule for later in the day. No problem. We made the adjustments. That left me 45 minutes. That meant I was actually going to get a lunch break!
Lunch sounded good, but I remained troubled by my interaction with the homeless man.
He said he looked “disgusting.”
I could help with that.
On a whim, I peeked outside. I expected to look left, and right, and find him long gone. But, he was posted-up not far away, smoking a cigarette… staring down at a job application from a neighboring business. He knew from up close, and I knew from far away, that it was a futile job application… handed to him in hopes he’d go away.
Didn’t matter.
I ducked back inside the barbershop and took my co-worker aside. I asked if she thought the crew would mind if I did the haircut and beard trim. She lit up and said it would be wonderful thing to do.
I had the crew’s blessing. I had the time. I had spare tools that I could use.
And so, I stepped outside and approached him. I explained that I’d had a cancellation, that I understood why he was having trouble finding work. I said I could give him a quick haircut and beard trim, if that might help.
He was speechless. He asked several times if I really wouldn’t mind. He said he was “filthy”. I said it was ok. He frantically put out his cigarette.
He came inside the shop on different terms. Now, he was my client. His name was David.
I offered David something to drink. He chose Cream Soda. I served it in a chilled glass and he acted like I’d handed him a golden chalice. I have never seen someone chug something and savor it at the same time. But, David did just that.
I draped him up while he continued to apologize saying, “I’m filthy”.
I said it was ok.
I turned him toward the mirror. We did a consultation just like all of the other consultations I do all day long. He was shy looking at himself in the mirror, pulling his hair down as if to somewhat hide his face, while simultaneously explaining how he preferred it cut.
Beyond the wear and … literal tear… of homelessness…. I could see he’d once been a blond haired man with piercing blue eyes. Sky blues eyes… just like my grandfather’s.
He likes the hair just long enough to comb back…. but it’s been so long since he’s had a haircut!… and it’s curly at the ends…. and problematic. So…. just do whatever, please, ma’am.
When I asked about the beard, which was far overgrown in every direction he said,
“Short, please, ma’am. Like a gentlemen’s beard.”
Like a gentleman’s beard.
Like. A. Gentleman’s. Beard.
I explained that I was going to wash his hair first. It would be necessary.
I leaned him back into the sink. His shoulders were still tense and he held his head up, awkwardly. He told me, again, that his hair was filthy; That the water would probably be brown.
I said that I knew that…. and it was ok.
He recommended I use gloves. I assured him I would.
I put on my gloves. I only did this as an initial sanitary precaution to make sure he didn’t have open wounds. He did not. And so, I took them off.
I hate gloves. The best part of my job is making people feel good, feel welcomed, feel comfortable, maybe even a little bit loved… with my hands.
When the warm water hit his head he melted.
Head – shoulders – eyes – cheeks – furrowed brow. They dropped and relaxed.
I washed his hair.
I sat him up, combed his hair, and went to work.
During the cut, David became more talkative. He was soft spoken, and I’m hard of hearing, so as he chattered, I had to cock my head toward him and strain to listen.
He explained that he’d been in Austin back in 2014. He’d been to St. David’s Hospital. He was a Doctor, himself! When he went to St. David’s, the place was empty. Something tragic had happened. Doomsday kind of stuff. All the people were gone and he wandered the empty halls in a hospital gown.
I nodded and went about my work.
This time, he explained with a soft and pleasant voice, he’d returned to Austin looking for his wife. She’d been kidnapped. She’d had their quintuplets. She and the 5 babies had been kidnapped. He had to find them! He’d come back to Austin to find them. She was the love of his life.
I nodded and went about my work.
None of it was real.
Maybe he’d been a Doctor once. Maybe. Probably not. The wife, she didn’t sound real. The kidnapping and quintuplets. Not real. But, I nodded and said I hoped he would find her.
It was none of my business.
“The love of my life. She’s the love of my life. I’m here to find her. I’m worried about her.” he went on, with an adamant, yet well-mannered insistence.
David only broke from the story occasionally to thank me (“ma’am”) and tell me how good it all felt.
We did an all-scissor cut and I left some length because he wasn’t a short-hair kind of guy and he wanted to be able to brush it back.
And then, I went to work on the beard. I cut it down to a respectable gentleman’s length. I shaped the neckline and the cheeks. There was no time for razor work, but his sun-worn skin probably couldn’t stand up to the task. So, I set the lines as best I could with my trimmer.
My work was done. As I prepared to turn him back toward the mirror (the mirror he had winced at and shyly faced during our consultation), I felt as though I needed to prepare him for the transformation. I was even a bit nervous, myself.
What if he hates it?
I leaned over and told him I was finished. Was he ready to see?
He straightened up in the chair. He most certainly was.
I turned him around toward the mirror.
As I turned him around, he was braced as if he wanted to hide from his reflection. He braced like someone whose rollercoaster car reaches the summit…. before it plummits.
He braced for impact, both hands gripping the armrests.
But, as he focused on the mirror and leaned forward slightly, a beaming smile grew across his face,
“OH! SHE’S GOING TO LOVE IT!”
And, in that moment, he was no different than any other person in the barbershop.
He was thrilled to look great for a “certain someone”. His confidence had been restored. He was no longer “filthy” or being shoo’d away. He felt refreshed and was able to take a brief break from life’s woes in the cool, restful climate of a barbershop. He looked like a grown-ass man with a fresh haircut and beard trim.
He thanked me, profusely, as I slid the barber cape off of him, like I do everyone else. I handed his hat and sunglasses to him.
“I don’t need this hat now!” David declared. He tucked the hat under his arm and hooked the sunglasses on the front of his shirt before shaking my hand.
We said our goodbyes.
I’ve never seen David again.
Part III:
I don’t tell this story to say, “Hey! Look at me. I did a nice thing for a homeless person.”
It was, literally, the least I could do. I have a trade and I had an 20 extra minutes that day.
What struck me was the lesson he taught ME.
I don’t know his story. There was obvious mental health stuff going on. I have no idea if there was substance abuse. I only smelled cigarette smoke on him and he was definitely not intoxicated or high.
He told me that he sleeps on concrete instead of grass because he doesn’t like the pesticides in the grass. His hands were mangled and his fingernails were yellow from the hand-rolled cigarettes.
But, he still knew what a “gentleman’s beard” was and he still wanted to look nice enough to get a job sweeping floors… and to gain the favor of his sweetheart, whether she be real or a vivid figment of the imagination.
I wasn’t sure why it bothered me so much when he said that he couldn’t get a job because he was “filthy”.
Sure, his appearance is a job-killer, but I knew the real reason he couldn’t get/keep a job was because when the paranoia really digs it’s teeth in, he comes off as, or possibly is, downright dangerous and unpredictable. Co-workers and employers can’t hedge bets on it. It’s probably played out at jobs dozens of times before homelessness got it’s grip on his life.
But, when I got home that evening and cooked my dinner, I was able to take some time to reflect on the entire interaction. I knew the words “disgusting” and “filthy” bothered me because of my mother; The kindest person on the planet.
Those words would have bothered her, too.
She would have washed his hair, too.
She would have taken the gloves off, too.
It was her birthday. I needed to give her a call. And so, I did.
It was June 14th.
Flag Day.
March 2019
Squared? Rounded? Tapered? What the heck does it all mean?!?
You've asked. Your Barber has answered.
Squared? Blocked? Rounded? Tapered? Faded? Argh!!!! What's with this question? I can't even see the back of my head!
You can't see the back of your head. But, your barber can. So can the person behind you in line for coffee. Also true for the prospective client, Friday night's date, the loan officer, the family in the pew behind you at church. Friends. Foes.
If only you had eyes in the back of your head.
Worry not! That's why you have a trusted Barber.
And now, said Barber will de-mystify the illusive neckline.
When your barber asks your "preferred neckline", they are asking which shape you would prefer that they "carve" out of the hair that has grown around the nape of your neck. You see, as your hair grows out, so does the hair along your neckline. It requires specific shaping during the haircut and the desired shape is a matter of personal preference... and lifestyle.
General neckline options are:
Square (or Squared or Blocked): Conservative and Classic
Round (or Rounded): Clean cut, but slightly less conservative
Tapered (or Faded): A versatile neckline that allows a clean, progressive grow-out. While this look is often considered a young-man's neckline and/or more "urban" a skilled barber will slightly taper ALL necklines (including round and square necklines) to create a more natural and attractive grow-out.
So, yes. You can have your square neckline tapered. And your round neckline tapered, too.
While necklines are a matter of personal preference and style, on occasion your Barber may suggest a particular neckline shape for the following reasons:
- cowlicks
- neck length
- head shape
- requested hairstyle
The presence of cowlicks sometimes limits the ability to achieve certain shapes within hairlines. Defer to your Barber on this. They will create a neckline that will work WITH, not against, your cowlicks.
Barbers can elongate short necks. They can shorten long necks. They can choose the most flattering neckline for a client's neck length and width. This can also be a matter of personal preference for the client. Don't hesitate to let them know exactly what you want. Unless you don't know... if so, be honest. Your Barber can advise.
When a client requests an urban haircut, the barber will likely offer a faded neckline. A shaggy style will get a textured, messy hairline that is in keeping with the overall look. A classic haircut usually calls for a square or round shape.
All cuts, unless the hair is long... or a mullet... should taper slightly.
As with all things, it's really that simple... and there's so much more to it than that. But, those are the basics and this information may help you choose more decisively.
Never hesitate to show pictures of what you like (and be open to feedback from your Barber about what is realistic for YOUR hair)
AND never hesitate to say "Dealer's Choice" if you have a relationship with your Barber and you trust that they understand your style and lifestyle.
Necklines MATTER to Barbers. Your personal stylist won't steer you wrong.
Feb 2019
How Often Should I Wash My Hair?
Guys, I get this question often and I’m happy to address it!
Believe it or not, there is a very good chance that you are washing your hair too often! And, no, this isn’t some hippie none sense and I’m not going to ask you to use crystals in lieu of deodorant or switch from cologne to patchouli.
Here’s the skinny:
We are taught at a young age to wash our hair every day in the name of being “clean”. Well, skipping the shampoo isn’t necessarily “dirty”. You see, many/most shampoos strip our hair of its natural oils. They are too harsh and we use too much of it.
A moderate level of oil is normal and good for your hair. It moisturizes the hair shaft and protects it. When we completely strip the hair of natural oils it can become dry, frizzy and susceptible to breakage.
I recommend reducing the frequency of shampoos. For those of you going to the gym or working jobs outdoors, you can still rinse your hair in the shower (sans product). Listen to your hair. Does it start to feel too greasy after day 3? Then adjust to shampooing every other day rather than every 3rd day. Your hair will tell you.
When you do shampoo, be sure to rinse the product thoroughly, then sort-of squeegee it, and apply conditioner.
Conditioner is a must. Shampoo strips our hair of dirt and oils. Conditioner puts the good stuff back in. That good stuff is protein and moisture.
Here are some general rules:
Very dry / Curly/ Frizzy Texture: Shampoo once a week (or less) and be sure to follow with a conditioner. Consider switching to Deva Curl “No Poo”. This is a product made specifically for curly textured hair that tends to be dry.
Kind of Dry / Frizzy Hair: Shampoo once or twice a week. Consider Deva Curl No Poo products.
“Normal” / Balanced: Shampoo every third day. No more than every other day. Consider buying a “dry shampoo” product. This is actually a spray (like hairspray) that you spray onto your hair when it is DRY and work it into your hair. The powder in the spray “eats” the grease and buys you time between shampoos.
I often spray my hair with dry shampoo before going to bed so that my hair is “clean / not greasy” in the morning.
When you do shampoo, always condition afterward. Always!
When applying shampoo- make sure to massage your scalp. This works the product down to the scalp and stimulates hair growth!! Rinse shampoo right away (or according to instructions on bottle). When applying conditioner, focus on the ends of the hair - as this is the oldest hair which needs the most repair. If your hair gets greasy, don’t even work it into your scalp. Dry scalp? Massage that conditioner in to the scalp! Either way, allow conditioner to sit on the hair for a few minutes.
Oily Hair / Greasy : Shampoo. Daily or every other day with a very gentle product. Use a very light conditioner or none, if you are really fighting greasiness.
Ok - so. I give all of you permission to skip the shampoo. I implore you to buy a conditioner and use it (shampoo-conditioner-all-in-ones are garbage, guys!).
Lastly, you buy nice shoes. You wear tailored clothes. But you know what you wear every day?? Your hair! Invest in it. Product quality matters.
My absolute favorite shampoo/conditioner line is Davines out of Italy. Available on Amazon and online. I love Momo for normal oil levels (smells great too). Minu for those needing added moisture.
I also like Pureology, Kevin Murphy, and Paul Mitchell... in that order.
There you have it. Don’t believe the marketing hype of needing to shampoo daily. Even if you shower daily, skip the shampoo product. Just rinse and go!
Listen to your hair. It will tell you when it’s dry. Skip the ‘poo. It will tell you when it’s greasy. In that case, shampoo and condition.
Use dry shampoo spray in between.
Love & Left Hooks,
Bear the Barber
may 2018
This Girl Loves Hot Dogs.... But That's Not What Memorial Day is About.
On Saturday I had an 80 year old Marine named Tom in my barber chair.
I asked him how he was doing .... speaking loudly because he’s an older gentleman; Odds were that he didn’t hear so well.
He leaned forward to hear me and then quipped back, “I haven’t decided yet! “ with a smile.
I laughed and told him I hoped I could help influence his decision in a good way.
“What are we doing today, Tom?” I asked as I began combing his hair.
“Well. Just make me not look like this!” He pointed to the top of his head.
I liked this ol’ timer.
I asked when his last haircut had been. This tells me how much to trim based on “barber math”. Hair grows an average of 1/2 inch a month.
Tom said he couldn’t quite recall, explaining that he’d had THREE strokes back in January and had been laid up for some time.
THREE!
There before me, he appeared to be on the mend and looking pretty good.
“No problem. We will clean you up and get you fresh, Tom.”
There wasn’t much to cut of his thinning silver hair, but I went about my work.
Toward the end of the haircut, he joked that he hoped I hadn’t had too much trouble cutting his hair, what with those big holes in his head.
He was kidding... but there were, in fact, two significant dents in his head. They’d posed no trouble in cutting his hair. But I had definitely taken note of them.
I asked him if they were the result of a procedure from the aforementioned strokes.
“No.” He said. Those were from his time in The Marines.
I did some short math based on his age and asked if he’d served in Vietnam, as my father had. He explained that he was deployed to Japan during that time.
The holes were from Japan. The holes were from
his military services. Deep dents in his skill, and I had a Barber’s Eye View of them.
It just so happened that while we touched on that subject, I was trimming the hair that frames his face. Rather than standing behind him, which we, as Barbers, spend a good percentage of our time doing, I was able to stop my work and make eye contact with him.
I thanked him for his service. He replied with a thank you.
And then I said,
“I know this weekend is a holiday for so many of us. We tend to forget why we observe this upcoming day. I know that it can be a very difficult time for many people.”
Tom looked up at me, with bright, sky-blue eyes (just like my Grandfather’s striking blue eyes had been). He was unmistakably surprised by my words.
His baby blues were full of tears. He looked like he was about to start sobbing, his lips pursed tightly, holding it all back. All of it. Who knows how much there was to hold back.
His mouth was clenched but his eyes were soft and sad.
After a short moment he managed to nod and say,
“Yes. It is very hard.”
And then,
“Thank you so much for saying that.”
I smiled and nodded at him. My eyes welled up. There we were. Two imperfect strangers about to have a good old fashioned cry together. And, that would have been ok.
But he was a Marine and I’m a little Bear. We didn’t need to say much more.
I excused myself ... to gather myself and try not to burst into tears... and to find him a tissue.
He dabbed his eyes and went back to jokes. Something about the pesky stuff coming out of his eyes...not knowing what it was.
An 80 year old man’s version of “I’m not crying, you’re crying!”
I set about back to my work, standing behind him.
It dawned on me last Saturday, as it has before, that while our country is so fantastically flawed... we are also fantastically vulnerable, lonely, yearning, and dare I say it.... mostly good.
I truly believe that if we all look up from our phones, and screens, our preferred poisons and even our work... to take the time to truly see one another...even if for a moment... this country will begin to heal and thrive.
We need to acknowledge one another. We need to see one another.
We need eye contact and empathy and small moments of togetherness.
I’m going to celebrate this weekend just like everyone else. Music. BBQs. Friends and family. But, I’m also going to take some time to remember those who should be honored this weekend: our service men and women who have lost their lives serving our country. I’m also going to be thinking about the family, friends, and comrades they left behind in passing.