Our hairy new reality

We’re living in strange times.

During the past few weeks, I’ve found myself doing things I never thought I would need to do. I’ve embarked on a couple (unsuccessful) toilet paper safaris. I’ve eaten a dusty can of lobster bisque that’s been hiding in a corner of my cupboard since Reagan was president. I’ve explained to my pre-school aged grandchildren that no, they can’t come for a visit, but I’ll be sure to attend their college graduations assuming it’s safe by then.

I’ve had lovely chats with most of my creditors, few of whom seem to believe a man who eats lobster bisque needs more lenient payment arrangements.

My little bar band, which has provided a sizeable chunk of my annual income for the past 45 years, now has no place to perform and no audience to perform for should a venue suddenly materialize.

Despite all this, I’m still better off than a lot of folks. Overnight it seems, we’re all living on Walton’s Mountain with John-Boy, Mary Ellen and everybody else who used to say “g’night” at the end of every episode. It’s only a matter of time before we’re eating possum stew and buying eggs from the mercantile one egg at a time. On credit.

I dunno. Maybe it won’t come to that. But along with all the other unusual coronavirus activities I’ve been taking part in lately, yesterday I cut my own hair. That can’t be a good sign.

I didn’t want to cut my own hair. I never have before; never even considered it.

When I was a kid, my mom (a former beautician) cut it for me. Even after I’d grown, gotten married and had kids of my own, I’d sometimes be able to talk her into breaking out the scissors on a Sunday afternoon to give me a free trim.

But she’s been gone a while now and even were she still here, I wouldn’t want to risk exposing her to any potential cooties just to ensure my coiffure looked pretty.

So there I was, scissors in my right hand, clippers in my left, staring at my big, dumb face in the mirror and wondering whether I dared go through with it.

On the one hand, I’m married, so it doesn’t matter whether I look good. On that same hand, nobody’s likely to see me in person for a while other than the checkout person at the grocery and even that’s not a sure bet, long-term. Also, I’m old and really, when did it become a thing that a guy my age had to look anything other than surly?

Grandpa Walton wasn’t cute. Neither was Woody Guthrie, Herbert Hoover, Huey Long or most other old dudes from the Depression era. John Steinbeck and Hemmingway were ruggedly handsome, but if you look carefully at those old photos it’s obvious neither of them had a clue as to where to find a talented barber.

So why should I have to look good? Answer: I don’t.

So I started in on my hair, trying to emulate the moves I’ve seen stylists perform in the mirror for decades. They make it look so easy, right? Lift a little hair, snip, snip, comb, clip, snip, lift a little more, snip a little more. Ask if you have any “big plans” for the weekend. Pretend to listen to your answer. Snip some more.

Next thing you know, you’re leaving the styling salon twenty bucks lighter with your ears lowered and the tan line on the back of your neck on full display.

It’s such an integral part of American life that you don’t even think about it. Until it’s gone and you’re standing there with scissors in your hand while muttering a prayer to Furfullson, the Norse god of ponytails and braided beards.

The humorous ending to this column would be to report I now look like an extra in a “Mad Max” movie. But I don’t. It turns out some of my mother’s skill with the scissors made its way into my DNA after all.

My first attempt at self-trimming was a rousing success. I look the same as always. Not great, but at least as good as John-Boy.

G’night, Mary Ellen.