Ever since I was a young boy, the length of my hair has been a symbol of my personal freedom. Having struggled through my adolescence during the ‘70s, freedom meant having long hair. At the ripe old age of 14 I went pro in a business where long hair on men was the norm, so it all sort of worked out. During the early ‘80s there was a brief period where I had short spikey hair, but felt free to dye it bright purple. Wow, those were the days. By the time I moved to LA in the late ‘80s I had the kind of mane everyone on Sunset Strip had. About the time Rock-n-Roll musicians began to shave their heads and invest in prison-style tattoos, I had already been focused on acoustic music, so long hair was still appropriate at Renaissance fairs, folkie festivals and early music concerts. Suffice it to say my hair's been long, really long, for over a quarter century.
I’d gone all the way through the minor orders of the clergy with waist-length hair when, as an acolyte, my sister asked me to be the celebrant at her wedding. Being one of those people in my life who disdains long hair, just for her I had it cut shoulder length. The interesting effect of this was that suddenly I looked like the identical twin of Marco Antonio Solis, aka “el Buki”, which was a great conversation starter in Latino circles. This went on for a couple of years, until this month. After a wave of 110+ degree heat, I decided anything I could do to offset the effect of 5 layers of heavy garments on Sunday morning would be good. I was ready for a change as well so I asked around for advice about where to get a hair cut. A friend referred me to a place less than a block away from where my church had been for decades, that I’d even joked about ‘never ever going in there’. Funny thing about using that word, ‘never’.
So there I am in a barber shop, waiting for a random person to call my name and remove a big symbol of my ego. When at last I sat down in the chair, I was so nervous and excited I couldn’t help but tell the stylist about how long it had been since I’d done it and wasn’t sure what to do.
“It’s hard for me to get excited” she said, “I do this everyday.”
Sorry Honey. I see that Hollywood has been good to you, too. Now the old me would have either used the same vitriolic diplomacy that has earned me a career as an ‘industry person’ or even worse, described in great detail into which parts of her anatomy she should dispense with her clippers. I took a bitter shot of pride instead and just sat there as she began to cut me. No sooner had she begun, my phone rang. Now I am usually repulsed by folks who rudely brandish their cell phones, but the timing was perfect. Sure enough, one of my friends was in the neighborhood wondering what I was up to.
“I’m at Rudy’s barber shop, getting my hair cut off.” I report.
“Dewd! Really! I’m blocks away, I’ll be right over!”
“Saved by the bell” I think. My friend shows up and takes charge, keeping the hairdresser honest by making her cut it shorter and trimming the beard and burns. Before I have had time to think about it, my locks are on the floor and I’m looking at my face in the mirror.
“No mas Buki, eh?” I ask.
“No mas Buki” came the laughing reply.
Now this barber shop is next door to that notorious Gnostic watering hole, El Chavo, so I press the pause button on my diet and buy the first round of margaritas. I’m not sure how many Zone blocks there are in a margarita or the subsequent lemon martinis. Add in the enchiladas al cocinero and I likely would have needed an entire turkey to offset the carbs. What was I to do? I couldn’t let a quarter century pass with a bowl of spinach. Fortunately this all started rather early and I managed to get my requisite six hours of sleep.
The following morning, I don my t-shirt, rabbot, cassock, amice, alb and tunicle and aid in the serving of mass. With my piel Irlandesa [pale, sensitive skin] I perspire if the temperature is over 65 degrees. Despite this, I was actually comfortable in all that fabric. More importantly I realized I’d let go of one of the last major vestiges of my façade. Talk about a rite of passage…
...So after a week or so of this personal transmutation, I have hair above the collar and have reduced my weight by several pounds. Not bad considering I’d slipped big time on Saturday. I’m sure the hair counted for some of it. For me it’s not about the pounds but how I feel. I refuse to be in bondage where food is concerned, so I’ve been keeping to my regimen but not being my obsessive compulsive self about the quantities. Just changing the ratio of what things I eat seems like it might work. I can just start to see the impression of my ribs, so I think I’ll continue.
Next task: Adapting my beans-and-torts Mexican food diet to a low carb/high protein style.
Wish me luck….
PEACE
G
