Summer Days!

Yesterday when I got home from work I went to my homosexual Mexican barber, Christopher, for a trim. He doesn’t speak English and my Spanish doesn’t include hair-talk so I sit in silence. Every couple of minutes he holds up the mirror and says “esta bien?” and I respond, in a very nice tone, “fuck damn.” The haircut usually takes about 30 minutes, but half of that time is taken up by styling. Christopher is addicted to styling -and since I can’t tell him to stop- he just keeps on going. I left with my hair spiked throughout and in need of only a pair of Zubas to complete the transformation back into a 3rd grader.

Actually, back in 3rd grade I didn’t own a pair of Zubas or cool spiky hair. I attended school with a buzz cut and in my sister’s hand-me-down dresses and jellies. But I loved them both. The airflow was fantastic, and I didn’t even give a damn if my berets didn’t match. Sure kids made fun of me, but only the “cool” kids who had BMX bikes and French-kissing girlfriends. What did I care about them? I had my own scene; there was Vylad, who drew NASCAR vehicles and memorized track layouts, Matt Marcourt, whose legendary bad breathe not only kept bullies at bay but drew attention away from his obesity, and Lucas, who paid 15 dollars for a bag of what turned out to be oregano, and smoked it anyways.

I remember those days like they were yesterday. All of us just sitting up in Matt’s tree house smoking oregano and talking about all kinds of things: Dale Earnhart, obesity, rose fertilizer. You name it we talked about it. Of course, those were simpler times. All you needed to be happy was an open back dress in the summers and a pair of blue sparkle jellies.