my careless contagion

Men don't take care of themselves as well as women do. Maybe that's why we don't live as long as women. If you see a man who takes great care of his appearance, for example, we think he's vain. That may or may not be true; I don't know. All I knew as I was walking to the hair salon on Oct. 3 was I was in for a new experience. You see, my barber, Randy, moved his operation to another town 30-40 minutes away (depending on traffic). So, I was forced to either find another place to cut my hair or travel to see his grumpy ass. Let me tell you, the woman who cut my hair was much more agreeable than good ol' Randy.  Sometimes change is good. That's my point. Just because my barber moved away doesn't mean I have to be dismayed. I don't have to follow him, either. He's perhaps too John-Wayne disagreeable anyway. One time he asked me what I wanted, and I replied, "A regular haircut." "What's that?" he sputtered. Another time ...

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...