Short, Back and Shy

There's a scene in Gran Torino when Clint Eastwood get's a shave from his barber. He does it simply because he's never done it before. There are two reasons he's never done it before; one, he is not a Soprano and two, nobody ever gets a shave from the barbers!

Well, when I make generalisations like this, I am usually assuming everybody in the world is like me. Of course, some people would prefer an Italian looking Englishman, deleting their facial hair with a cutthroat razor - to Mach 3-ing it off in the bathroom sink themselves . Me? I'm nervous enough about the haircut.

The barber's is, at times, an intimidating place to be. Especially if you're not a frequent visitor. Frequent visitors are usually men who have a strict limit on the length of their skinhead, like some kind of urban monks:

For example, I imagine Mr Ross Kemp (left) thinks Mr Fuzzy Head (below) is less manly because his hair has grew over the standard length. I remember feeling less human when I coloured outside the lines in infant school. I wonder if this is the same sort of feeling.

....actually, to be fair, that vest
isn't doing Fuzzy Head any favours
in the manly department.

Frequent visitors establish a relationship with the barber. I've seen skinheads having full conversations about the barber's children and vice versa.

It shouldn't be but a haircut is an ordeal for me, being a non-frequent visitor, a once-every-couple-of-months visitor. I sit there pretending to read the free newspapers, quarrying my mind for potential conversation starters before it's my turn in the chair.

Will he remember me? Even if he does, what did we talk about last time that got us through this necessary evil? Will he make a comment about my quif again? That seemed to take up a minute or two last time. Shall I mention my double-crown? Do I tip a barber? What's the etiquette? I tip cabbies and I'm not even sure if they deserve it. Yes, he shall have a tip, the silent haircut must have been awkward for him too. It's the least I can do. Will he find this odd? I don't know! God I'm pathetic.

In conclusion I am much, much more comfortable visiting the dentist.

The Lingering Password

HairyBollocks9t9. That was my password for ICT in year 7 of school. I don't know why. Perhaps I thought someone would find it out one day and think I was a radical. Or maybe it was because I'd began to sprout a fluffy moustache at that age and the dread of hair growth on my testes, was constantly on my mind.

The '9t9' bit was just the thing to do. The year was 1999 and this clever shorthand was written on park slides, lampposts, bus stops and the back of every academic book:

Modern History - "Johnno was here 9t9"
Biology - The Wonders of the Human Body - "Miss Wright's tits control the tides -Smithy 9t9"
Mathematics - The Easy Way to do Algebra - "a + b = Karl's dad bums kids, 9t9"

Besides, I needed a number in the password.

So, every month in school our passwords needed to be changed. HairyCock9t9. That was my alternate password. To this day I haven't seen a cock with hairs (I'd like to point out that my cock research is not extensive).

When I left school, I went to college. I tried other passwords (Liverpool04, Greenday2004) but always forgot them. HairyBollocks9t9 and HairyCock9t9 had been with me throughout my highschool education, why should I abandon them for my higher learning?

Why even stop there? I got my first job in the electrical store and yes, I needed a password to log onto their systems. I created a MySpace (R.I.P.), inevitably this led to facebook, YouTube, MSN, Xbox Live, iTunes and Blogger - all graced with hairy, genital orientated literature.

In work, if you are logged onto one of the stores fifteen terminals, then you cannot log onto another. These terminals are scattered all over the store, back offices and warehouse. So what if you need something urgently, for a customer or something? Well, you ask a colleague to log on for you. What if there isn't a colleague close by? You spot one in the distance and shout across the store - Hey, giz your log on, mate!

So imagine my misfortune when my manager needed my log on. He was selling a microwave to an elderly couple. I'm fifty metres away. He shouts. I hesitate. He shouts again. I give him my employee number. He types. I hesitate. He shouts. I try miming the password to him. He shouts. He glares.

'HairyCock9t9!'

He wasn't a child in 1999, so he wasn't aware of that genius shorthand. He types it in wrong and I have to walk fifty metres towards a manager, who looked like he was chewing dynamite and an elderly couple, chewing their gums and looking very, very disappointed. I typed that password in for the last time that day.

Fee Fi Fo THUMB

Three bin men (Waste Disposal Operatives) in a truck, gave way to me as I drove home today. I thanked them with a thumbs up. A thumbs up. A real, enthusiastic thumbs up. Not just a flick of the thumb but a stiff, vertical thumb, thrust towards my windscreen - it wasn't a thank-you-thumb, it was a thumb that said 'Nice one, lads. Keep up the good work'.

If it were, for example, a middle aged woman - I would never give the same thumbs up. I wouldn't even consider my thumb at all. Instead, I imagine I'd quif the steering wheel with my fingers - leaving my thumb out of sight. Reserved for specific situations.

Sometimes, especially if it is someone about my age, I don't even acknowledge their kindness. Unless, of course, it's a very attractive lady person. In that case, I run through every possible way to show appreciation for a "giving way" - I panic and either duck behind the dashboard or do them all, in some kind of gesture variety performance: Thumb flick, thumbs up, double thumbs, thumbs down?! Flash the headlights, wave, smile, finger flick and nod.

There's a flipside too. When I give way to others, I glare, scratching their retinas with my eyes, waiting for their decision, hoping for something original, like pulling tongues. I don't glare really, I merely glance, sometimes I get confused and end up thanking them! It's such an awkward, unexplained part of driving. They're should be a guide:

Waste Disposal Operatives - Big thumbs up.
Man/woman in suit - Raise index finger from steering wheel (almost as if to point at them).
Neighbour - Anything goes depending on mood. Ideally, a wave and smile.
Muscular man in 4x4 - Look down and speed up.
Just because somebody is in an identical car to yours, it doesn't mean you have bonded - a thumb, nod, index finger or full extension of the fingers at the top of steering wheel, will do just fine.

I'm tired of it all and I haven't even been driving for a year yet. I'm just not cool enough to know exactly what gesture, to give what person, at what time. To play it safe, next vehicle to give way is getting the finger - nobody's perfect and I bet everybody, especially people who drive, deserve the finger now and then.

Pain

I stole a wheelchair from the main hospital for him. It was ten o'clock at night when I wheeled my brother into hell. One woman was asking the A&E for a light. Every word had a Z in it.

'Hasz zanyone gotz za lightzzzz?' She staggered towards a foolish man who answered yes. Before she reached him, she tripped and cracked her cheek on a metal chair. The nurses at reception did not care.

A man was bleeding from at least five different wounds in his face. He was still intoxicated with whatever and was kissing his wife, smearing blood on her chin. He repeatedly advised the room to not pick a fight with a tree.

Another man came out of the GP's office. He was wearing a bed pan for a hat. He claimed the devil was in his head before preaching the most racist political views to the waiting room.

'White jobs for white people. Fucking darkies.' The man was escorted off the premises by security.

We waited here three hours, for the x-ray results.

'Do you want any painkillers?' Asked the doctor. My brother answered no. He could withstand the pain, it was a physical, sharp pain across the top of his foot. The doctor made no such suggestion for me.

Of course, there is no painkiller for guilt. Guilt isn't an illness, it's a sentence - a punishment. Guilt sits in your throat like a ball, with its chain hanging down and coiling in the pit of your stomach.

I'd broken my brother's foot in a football game. It was the most naive tackle and it should never have happened. After the hospital, I dropped him off at his house. It was half one in the morning. He hopped out of the car and fixed himself on the crutches. He closed the door and tapped the window with the base of a crutch. He done it in a way that said, goodbye, don't worry and even though you've fractured my foot, you haven't fractured our friendship.

Traffic lights, brake lights, head lights, street lights - they all splinter into several lines when you look at them through tears. I never want to seem them like that again.






I'm sorry for this being the softest blog I've written so far but it's been a good way to help get over one of the worst nights of my life.