Who Knew Salvation Was Only A Haircut Away…

I think the barista must have forgotten how beautiful she is.  I kept finding my eyes lingering about her satiny platinum skin… entirely of their own accord.  And I felt this tough girl vibe from her, as if she was saying “what the fuck are you lookin’ at me for, lady?”  All this was very subtle though.  It’s the kind of conversations we have all the time as we swim about our blushing, incognito lives, amidst other racing humans, but mostly do not have the presence of mind to notice, except once in a while.  Anyway, if she had have remembered how beautiful she was, she would have felt that it was completely natural for my eyes to play about her flower petal skin.  But here she was, just slingin’ coffee for the masses and gathering crumpled wads of meaningful paper, smoothing them and organizing them lovingly in a special drawer.  Mundane.  This world seems to be designed for us to constantly forget our radiance.  This world is a plea for us to time and again and maybe even once and for all remember our radiance.  I’ve been in her shoes.  Someone is staring at me and I am thinking to myself, “Man, why you gotsta be all up in my she-it, back off, wouldja?”  But if I could just remember that they are merely a thirsty soul, feasting upon God’s divided beauty, I would graciously smile and open wider.  Next time…

Okay, there went that topic… Now what?  Where is the weight?  Where is the resistance?  What are the truths that I squirm at the idea of disclosing?  What would God have me say?

A few things.  Mykael gave himself a haircut the day before yesterday.  Finally.  He was only threatening to for the past couple of months.  And then, Wednesday night, I come home from dinner with my fantastic friend Dan, and there’s Mykael, dressed to kill in his gray briefs, lily skin and the pinkest nipples, standing ankle deep in a sea of his own copper mane.  His hair looks awful.  It’s fuckin’ short… and very jagged and sloppy.  I panic, because I have already been feeling repulsed by him, and now he doesn’t even have his endearing eighties sit com heart throb hair.  He looks like he’s been drafted by the military.  Great.  It’s getting on nine o’clock.  He pleads for my aid.  I don’t want to, but I feel compelled to clean up his terrible mess.  I give him a couple of hopeless swipes with his dull scissors before realizing that I am not the messiah that he was hoping for.  He keeps at it.  A buzz here a few snips there.  Buzz, buzz, snip, snip, while I slither between him and the bathroom sink to slather my toothbrush with white, minty paste, stepping in his stunning auburn puddle, tracking sticky locks about the house.

Once when I was maybe fourteen, I cut my mom’s hair on the front porch of our house in San Leandro.  It was a very traumatic experience for me.  I snipped a bunch off, realized the seeming permanence of my actions and panicked at the unruly, erratic slop I had made of her hair.   But there was no turning back, so I fought the fear, and I kept snipping my way to attempted redemption.  But the more I snipped, the more helpless I felt, until I finally gave up and fled to my room in tears where I refused to come out.  My mom finished the job herself and looked seven eights decent upon completion.  Good job, mom.

Time out, because a man just left the café with a large sized cup of something… topped with a bountiful squirt of whipped cream.  He took an eager, glutinous sip as he strode toward the door, and whipped cream clung to his bushy salt and pepper mustache.  I was captivated.  I couldn’t help it.  My eyes were magnets that stuck to his endearing, cream strewn ‘stache.  He was one of those manly men, who looks like they’ve lived a full, manly man’s life, driving big rig trucks down the long, lonely road of life, his stony heart riding shotgun, he stops every few hundred miles to fuel up on chicken fried steak and eggs and a black, steaming cup of folgers at the desolate diner along the endless, rural highway.  He felt my eyes burning holes in his cream coated anonymity and soon enough his wily, leather tongue emerged to lick himself clean the way only a man can.  Priceless.

Time in.  The moral of the story about my mom’s haircut is that haircuts just aren’t my bag.  And that’s okay.  It’s just a horrible feeling to see that I have made a mess of someone’s appearance (!!!)  and the weight of the pressure to fix it crushes my delicate psyche.  I mean, it would be a different story if I knew what I was doing… if I had some actual techniques or something.  But I don’t.  And so I shant give any more haircuts… until I go away to beauty school, once and for all.

But I brought up Mykael’s haircut to say that something has shifted in his being since he cut his hair.  I can see glimmers of hope.  I had been totally wearing the dick in the family. (And loving it and HATING it, but mostly wanting to leave my pathetic pussy whipped man) But now, with his short, almost stylish faux-hock, he pushes back, and I am forced to reorganize my orientation toward our power play.  God, I can be such a sorry little drill sergeant.  Such a punishing father.  But only when I have a willing accomplice to carry out my steely commands.  This new rendition of Mykael hasn’t been so willing.  I think I like this, though it is a bit startling.  It’s kinda funny to notice our dynamics and poke fun at them.  This morning I was feistily teasing him about how big my balls were; how much space they took up in my briefs.  Listen, I don’t want to make a habit of this game… but it’s refreshing to reveal the covertly ruling, subterranean energies playing out in a relationship and then act them out in a comical way… just to let them know that they are no longer slipping under the radar and dominating.  Just to let them know that they are not so mighty and all powerful.

I announced my enormous balls as I attempted to pin him down on my bed.  “Surrender to me.  Surrender to my huge balls,” I commanded, as I exerted my full force, pressing down on him, feeling like a semi-domesticated tigress.  But thankfully, after not too much struggle, I was the one pinned, entirely helpless and choking on my own peels of exhausted laughter.  Thank God.  Maybe there’s hope for us after all.



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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. K
    Apr 08, 2010 @ 03:06:14

    I just stumbled across your blog. The power of the moment, any moment, rises in your writing.
    K

    Reply

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