Saturday, April 3, 2010
Three Times Three
Every year on Good Friday, the businesses in my old hometown used to close their doors from noon until three. It might have been warm that day, or a cold, dark cloud might have descended; a stranger would search in vain for a haircut. Once, on the day before Easter, I was waiting my turn in the barbershop, watching one of the locals getting an old-fashioned shave. He told the barber, and consequently everyone else in the shop, that he wanted to look his best for the Easter sunrise service at the little cemetery on the hill east of town. I didn’t know his name. But every time I saw him after that, I remembered his shave and what he said. I also knew that if my father had shaved the afternoon before Easter, he would have needed to shave again by morning. In junior high, the fuzz on my face was turning brown. It was time: Dad found an old electric razor that literally yanked the hair from my skin — not the shaving experience I had admired and imagined. I stood at the mirror like him, growing tougher by the minute. Before long, I’d earned the right to a grown-up razor, mug, and brush. I still have them, and the mirror. These days, I scrape around the edges, as if I were tending a roadside field. Some days are warm; on others, a cold, dark cloud descends. I am not the way, or the life. Have never been. But the road, I must say, is a cross I love to bear.
Recently Linked: A hearty welcome to two new followers: Wine and Words, who is recovering in a state of Quiet Commotion from her recent run-in with martinis; and Diane Dehler, who blends art, haiku, and urban aesthetics in her life and in her blog, Princess Haiku.
In the Forum: Barbaric Apps.