So the past month has been hectic. I looked back at my calendar and for every single day over the past 4 weeks I've had something. Practice or games (14 times). Visitors. Birthday parties. Dim Sum. Trips to Phoenix. In general, I've been busy. And while I love being busy (as it keeps me social and prevents me from worrying about...well, a lot of things) I'm overloaded. I haven't gone to bed early in what feels like forever. Never one to favor the lukewarm middle ground I've gone from feeling sedentary in Seattle to wired in Washington.
Which brings me to this blog, this blog which I love and of which I have been neglectful. I realize that there are a couple of people who seem to enjoy reading it, and I've been unable to generate any content, largely because I've been alone for 10-15 minutes a day for a month. I'm going to try and return to writing more. I feel good when I write, and I've missed doing it. So for any of you, if there are any, who wish I'd written more--sorry. I'll try to do better.
After journeying hither and yon yesterday I finally found cufflinks (for my new shirt) at the Dollar Store in Mount Pleasant. I walked in there, exasperated at not being able to find these incredibly simple things. I also was cursing my father, aren't cufflinks the kind of thing that a father gives to his son. Some sort of strange and pointless father son moment that is supposed to make up for a lifetime of distant parenting and mixed messages. Turns out I got the good father and no cufflinks. So I guess it's a fair trade. Anyways after searching high and low (well, a few stores anyways) I finally wander into the Dollar Store and ask for cufflinks. The woman working there informs me that "no" they do not have any, they've just sold out. Immediately another employee shouts to her something in a language I don't recognize and then says in English that they do have cufflinks. Later it is related to me that the 1st woman was certain I'd asked for Cornflakes. Apparently my English isn't nearly as good as I'd hoped, or at least my diction isn't.
After cufflinks were purchased, it was time for a return to Alex's Unisex Hair. Avid readers will remember my spicy visit earlier this summer. I liked the results from that first cut, so I ventured back. This time I was greeted by a woman who spoke absolutely no English besides the word clipper. Non-marine, white guy hair cuts are pretty rare in this place. But the price is right, it's close to home, and hell how badly can you mess up a man's haircut. After gesturing and trying to convey length, the woman asked me if I wanted clippers. Not waiting for the answer she asked Uno, Dos. I'm guessing that's shorthand for the length of cut. I gesticulated wildly making scissors out of my fingers. It was like an impromptu Roshambo had broken out and I was playing alone. Finally a guy a few chairs down translated, my motion into Spanish for scissors and out came the blades and the clippers were replaced.
Normally when I get a haircut I spend a lot of time having conversations about really mundane things, and generally sort of wishing I could just veg out. Well this was wholly appropriate situationally. She asked no questions, and I offered no small talk. She worked and watched tv, and I stared at myself in the mirror. Realizing for the first time, just how deeply creased my face is. I've developed wrinkles or at least marks that indicate age. It's not really something that troubles me, more just the strange realization that I don't know my own face as well as I thought.
Finally the hair cut was finished. The woman combed all of my hair straight back into something that resembled the look you'd see on a 80s film version of a mobster. My hair, in this process, acquired more grease and than a Rizzo appreciation festival. But the hair cut was cheap (11 bucks) and quick, and I didn't have to say anything. I parted with my best, and most sincere "gracias," which brought a smile and a patronizing (wholly deservedly) "something something something something, poquito (sp) Espagnol." I smiled. She smiled and laugh.
I guess 4 years of crappy highschool French doesn't really help so much when you live in a Hispanic neighborhood. Maybe I can pick up some Spanish along the way. I know (think, I know) poquito means small...she was being generous, I know one word, that's not a small amount that's nothing.