Over the pandemic I let my hair grow out. I rocketed past my second childhood into my second adolescence. It’s a time-consuming nuisance, every morning I have to comb it out, tangles and snarls and knots. I have to clean nests of hair out of my comb, and brush it off my clothes, my jacket looks like it was made from the fur of an odd, long haired, black and gray animal. But, I’ve enjoyed my hippy look.
Life has changed. My new found mellow has opened me to new experiences, a feeling of discovery that has made me see people in a new light. I’m fascinated by the smallest things. My long hair makes me a subject of interest.
People who would have probably ignored me four years ago feel free to approach me. I’ve enjoyed the attention.
Several weeks ago a truck driver delivered several pallets to us at work, he had a long, braided pony tail. He was younger than me, but not significantly.
“How long have you been growing that?” He asked, pointing at my hair with the pen he was using to fill in the details of the freight bill.
“Since Covid, about three years, I guess.” I told him. “How long did it take you to braid that?”
“About five minutes.” He said. “It used to take a lot longer, but after a while you get the hang of it.”
We talked for a few minutes about hair, the care and feeding of, hair cuts, he felt they were best avoided, and the benefits of certain gels and combs. The brotherhood of the ponytail.
“You and your buddy talking about hair?” My coworker asked while we were counting the boxes.
“Yeah, he said he could braid his hair in five minutes.” I was impressed.
Long hair has made me approachable, it’s hard to look intimidating if your hair hangs over your shoulders, in loose sloppy curls.
Last night I went to get some tomatoes and broccoli for dinner. At our age it’s important to eat a lot of vegetables.
As I was leaving, I fell in behind an older lady, dressed in a big, heavy coat, she was leaning with her elbows on the handle of her shopping cart, wheeling it slowly and steadily toward the exit. She was looking at her receipt, checking to make sure she only paid what she thought. She moved slowly, but I was in no hurry, the gummy had kicked in, I was feeling good about things. Life is more pleasant when you’re stoned and you don’t take things too seriously. And everybody should move at the speed they find comfortable.
She walked out the first door, into the large area where the sales fliers are displayed and the carts are stored. She was moving in a straight line, practiced and comfortable.
There was a man and his wife standing there, with a shopping cart, it had four or five plastic bags in the bottom. He looked brisk and serious. His brown felt cowboy hat had pins signifying different military accomplishments and attachments. There was the black and yellow cavalry pin, front and center. He was thin, seemed fit and oddly enough he was wearing sunglasses. Sunglasses that wrapped around his head, the kind you see in NASCAR pits, and on construction sites. Serious, and sleek, aerodynamic, they almost looked as if they were tailored to fit snugly on his face. It caught my eye, because we were still inside, and it was cloudy and gloomy outside, I almost felt a little silly in flip flops and shorts.
As I walked up beside him he wrangled the bags from the bottom of the cart, and his wife started to push the cart toward the other carts. He made a move toward the open door, and he looked at me, his face was expressionless. Between the mirrored frames and the empty expression I had the uneasy feeling I was looking at a ghost. Maybe it was the gummy.
“Go ahead. I’m in no hurry.” I motioned toward the door.
He cocked his head to the side, a little quizzically, his expression didn’t change. I could see myself in his mirrored lenses. He took a few seconds, and it made a little uncomfortable.
He had moved through the door and was standing outside. He had stopped and turned to face me. “Thanks, how are you today?” He asked, clipped, precise.
“I’m getting by, things are good.” I told him. “How about you?”
“It’s like I tell people, if I were doing any better I’d have to be setting at the right hand of God, looking down on y’all.” He smiled, bright, happy, toothy. He had the fervor of conviction, faith is armor, sword and shield.
“You’re probably not ready for that, yet.” I didn’t know what to say and that seemed inoffensive and noncommittal. It’s hard to know what to do in the face of a true believer.
“Any day’s a good day to die.” He said. He seemed serious. He was still smiling, and it was the same smile, but it seemed almost sinister.
“Ok,” I said. “Have a nice evening.”
I walked away, wondering if I should get a haircut. Maybe some day. I’m in no hurry. And, I’m going to stick with the gummies.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
