Uncle Pete
was a bachelor. I loved the man. His heart was made of gold and he treated his
nieces and nephews as if they were his own children. Unfortunately, tact was
not one of his attributes.
“Been eating
too many tomatoes, Dave?” he asked me one time during a visit to his
place. At the bursting-with-self-confidence
age of 14, and experiencing an acne breakout on my cheeks that resembled the
chicken pox, I never did quite forget his inquiry or its impact on my
self-perception.
To quote
Bill Cosby in one of his old skits, “I told you that story so I could tell you
this one.”
The semester
break my senior year in college was combined with the Christmas break. I was home almost a month and even with
constant reminders from my mom, I failed to schedule an appointment for a
haircut. The crisis, however, was that
this was no ordinary college break. I would be returning in two days to do my
student teaching, the last and most important element of my four years of
college.
I was
scheduled to drive back Sunday evening, so Saturday morning Mom called Peg
Turgeon, a family friend who also happened to cut hair part time in town. Peg was happy to accommodate my request and
told my mom that I should come down later in the day, after 5:30. (Please keep in mind, in mid-January it gets
dark very quickly.)
I was barely
seated and covered with the barber cape when the power suddenly went out. Never
blinking an eye, nor suggesting we wait till the next day, Peg lit a candle and
grabbed her scissors. A new and inexpressible feeling went up my spine and back
down to my extremities. It was similar to having surgery by candlelight without
anesthesia – and since I’ve never experienced that, either, I’m at a loss for a
better description.
I do
remember how fast Peg kept cutting. The fact that there was little light didn’t
slow her down a bit, nor did it do much to improve my anxiety.
Still in the
dark, I paid the bill and gave Peg a nice tip, too, as instructed by Mom.
During the
half-mile trek back home, the power returned and I entered the brightly lit
kitchen where my mom was talking on the phone.
Now, most
families would try to handle such situations with caution and tact, but not
mine. Mom was incapable of speech. She did manage to snort, drop the phone, and
grab herself to keep from spontaneously peeing. Then she roared out loud in
laughter. Her first verbal comment was made to the person on the phone.
“Sorry,
I have to go. Dave just got back and I
have to grab a tissue, blow my nose, and talk to him. He got a haircut and it didn’t turn out like
any of us planned.”
After a few
more roars, snorts, and grabs, she looked at me and quickly queried, “What
happened?!”
To be
honest, our efforts of combing, brushing, washing, and blow-drying did little
to rectify the calamity. I was sure my student teaching supervisor (as well as
the governor) would classify this catastrophe as a state disaster. I didn’t even want
to guess what my students would think of me on Monday morning. Mom tried to
even the cuts out, but it only made the hair look even shorter and sparser.
I drove east
to Shippensburg the next evening, but my self-confidence headed further south
as I entered my apartment. One of my
roommates, Steve Laird, happened to also be on the phone with his fiancée,
Rosalie.
“Hold on! Po
just walked in the door with the shortest haircut I’ve ever seen,” he exclaimed
while laughing uncontrollably. He then
asked me the same question my mom had asked, “What happened?!”
Needless to
say, I did not sleep well that night. And the next day, I knew the kids were
trying to be kind as they wondered why this college guy had shorter hair than
my supervisor, my cooperating teacher, any other male teacher in the school, or
any student. What a fine start it was to my teaching career!
Lou Holtz,
former football coach at Notre Dame, frequently spoke to his players about
misfortunes such as this. “We learn from
adversity,” the veteran mentor often repeated.
Apparently
then, I’m the world’s slowest learner. For some reason, years later, after failing
again to schedule another haircut, I tried trimming my own hair using one of
those razorblade contraptions advertized on TV.
While
holding a small mirror in one hand and combining a two-way view with a larger
mirror in the bathroom, I managed to dig deeply into the hair on the back of my
head with that razor. I’m positive my
assault on my hair was even quicker than Peg Turgeon’s.
Two other recollections
stand out in my mind. One, I remember using the device while my hair was still
wet, after washing. And two, I recall
reading afterwards in the directions, “Do not use razor on wet hair.”
The fiasco
said little for me as a teacher. I should have practiced what I preached and
“read the instructions ahead of time.”
Local
hairdresser and former student Kim Grimes came to the rescue that day with a
variety of tools, the greatest of which was a brown eyebrow pencil. She did an exceptional job with her skills,
but I made the mistake of showing Mom and my siblings my mangy mangled mess in
the back of my head.
That display
occurred at no other place than the viewing and funeral for one of my
aunts. Let’s just say that my family’s
reaction to my debacle made their grieving process more tolerable, but did
little once again for my confidence and self-assurance.
The learning
from adversity in this story can be summed up in three phrases. One, if you
need some self-confidence boosting, and you expect things to be handled
tactfully, please stay away from all members of my family. Two, bring a gasoline-powered electric
generator with you any time you intend to get your hair cut, especially in Sidman.
And three, if you get the urge to cut
your own hair, I suggest you cut your fingers off instead. You can always keep
your hands in your pockets when out in public.
