my careless contagion

When is a haircut more than a haircut? It's not really a joke. But if it was, the punchline would be, "When you go to Randy's barbershop."  Randy is the only barber in town. There are salons, but do I look like a salon guy? Randy is a John Wayne character (indeed, much of the memorabilia in his shop is John Wayne-related, and the movie he was playing when I last went featured — you guessed it — John Wayne), and he epitomizes the town I live in (tough, no-nonsense, get outta my way, ya fruit loop). His shop is full of funny, kitschy stuff, lots of war stuff, mementos. He has a framed copy of a letter to the editor from the local newspaper praising him for saving the letter writer's life; you see Randy spotted a suspicious growth on the man's neck. It turned out to be cancer. He's a hero, according to the clipping. An unsung hero. But when I walk into Randy's shop, I cower. For me, all his signs say, "Don't fuck up my day, boy."  Why...

This is the third and final installment of the changed-by-divorce posts. What has been perhaps the most surprising change can be seen in my body. What was once a thing of ... um, well, not a thing of beauty, but a thing less hideous than it is now, has become a thing of ... well, kind of a crime scene.  I've never been a big dude. Never been very strong. I'm just a regular guy. All around ... regular. Just a dude. Nothing special. I preferred to have sex with the lights off when I used to have sex because there just isn't anything exciting about my body. That was then. And this is now.  I can't even imagine having sex with a woman. Mostly because my body is at its worst state since I can remember. I could liken it to several types of livestock. Let's just say I've embraced middle age in a BIG way. It's great, really. Kinda liberating. Until I look in the mirror.   It's not like I'd even know what to do with a woman anymore. I don't rem...