A Truly Meaningless Post

I'm due for a PET scan tomorrow, which costs more than I could easily afford during the best of times.  Either stress, drugs, or the local environment has put me into a foul humor.  I don't want to talk to anyone.


Lacking anything better to do, I decided to get my hair cut.  There's a nice old fashioned barber shop a little way away from me, so off I go.

The shop has several signs in the window of the door, which is not the typical double glass door.  One says Watch Your Step.  Another depicts a falling man and advises everyone, Watch Your Step.  A third says Open.   So what do I do?

Ah, put a sock in it you bums.

I came within an ace of measuring my length on the floor.  Instead, I controlled my fall to a line of thankfully unoccupied waiting room style chairs.  One of the barbers came over, clearly concerned, and asked me if I was alright.

"Are you okay buddy?"

"My pride is severely injured."

He looks a little relieved, and another barber, an older man, comes over.

"We've got a sign out there..."

"Oh, well, I can't read.  I just look at the pictures."

They all laugh a little and I climb into the chair.  The haircut goes as expected, with the barbers refusing to argue politics.  They tell me up front that I can talk politics all I like and they'll just agree with me.  The fellow giving me my haircut give me a class 'A' cut, tames my sideburns, and trims my mustache.  When he gets the left side finished, I remark that it looks a bit uneven.

"Oh - you mean you want the side to match?"

"Well, if they don't, the folks down at my church will think I've started drinking again and give me heck."

We both have a laugh over that and he gets me trimmed up.  I look much better.  Good, even.  Then calamity strikes.  I don't have enough cash and they don't take Visa.  Cash only.

The barber is nice about it and says I can pay him the next time I come in.  He doesn't look worried about it, but I feel terrible.  I leave with eight bucks and a promise.

The damned low tire pressure light is on, indicating one of my tires is low.  It doesn't say which one, and air pumps are hard to find.  I hit my favorite ATM, then go inside the credit union to get change for a double sawbuck.  The lady at the counter tells me they aren't supposed to provide change for people who don't have an account.  I explain the circumstances, and she reluctantly provides change.  I can kind of understand this, and kind of not.  WTF?  It's change for a $20.  What's the big deal?  Given that I'm the only customer in the whole place, I'd think she'd just give me change.

Long story short, she gives me change but she also mocks me for my age and my, to her, unreasonable request.  She's a 50-something black female.  I'm a 60-plus white male.  Welcome to the new normal.

On the way back to the barber shop I get my tires inflated, and learn that the reason I'm losing air is my aluminum rims.  Okay, whatever.  I finally make it back to the barber and pass him a five spot along with my thanks.  The man did a great job for me and didn't ridicule me for missing the step.  The barbers told me I wasn't the first and likely wouldn't be the last.  They're a great bunch of guys.

Tomorrow morning I have a PET scan and an appointment with an ENT.