It sure was scary learning how to perm. (And not because of the chemicals;) Didn't see that one coming in barbering school. But now I have one more skill to charge for, right?

So, this mannequin is the work of my new friend, Eric. The kid is truly an artist. And he skates, too! Everyone in the shop agrees it looks like a cross between an Avatar and Terminator II.

Current cuts and past poetry

Here Come Ol' Flattop

You'd laugh your head off if you had any idea how many horrible puns I have come up with lately. This is Gus, and he's sporting my first flattop. I'm pleased with the result. His beard and mustache suited him when his hair was longer and he looked like the leader of a three ring circus.

Cornrows anyone?

This is Jewel. Well, that's just her stage name. Her special talent is doing a head stand. She's sporting my first ever attempt at weaving human hair. It's seems as though I have a natural propensity for this. It's a lot less scary than cutting hair. I guess all those days on the river tying knots with frozen fingers paid off.

 

Erin has even let me cut her hair. Notice that I'm not posting a photo of that handy work. Sorry Erin. 45 degree cuts are very difficult...

So, yeah, I've made it through the first month of Barbering School. So much has been happening so quickly without the internet that I haven't been able to post anything for too long. I can't decide if I should update you inquiring minds on the most recent stuff or broad strokes of the past. 

Just so you all realize that I do think of you often, I will attach the poem I started over a month an a half ago. It started as a post about moving, trying to downsize our belongings to fit into our new and smaller apartment in Aurora. 

Yup, for those who don't know, we signed a lease in Aurora the day before the tragedy. Defiantly, we have forged ahead, refusing to be deterred by the odd obstacles and portents. 

For example, the car wreck has turned out to be beneficial, providing us with much needed extra cash, and much to my father-in-law's dismay and disbelief, we still have a reliable vehicle. Here's a photo of a dragonfly on the antenna of our car. And no, I didn't clip its wings. 

     

Some more good news is that I bought a "new" bike, an '83 Schwin Tour De Luxe, and my arm was strong enough to go for a ride. It's scary riding a touring bike for the first time through a busy city with a semi-recovered broken elbow. I suggest you leave that for me to do for you. Later, I will post a photo of the glorious bike. (Hopefully before I wreck it). 

I have more, but no need to overwhelm. As promised, here's the poem I never managed to finish or post when it might have been relevant.

Moving: The Great Purge

There is a mounting hill of paper in my office. Flowing now down the hallway. The cats squirm and slide between piles of sheets. A decade of documentation.
Syllabi from past instructors that I carried two thousand miles to keep close while attending graduate school, never had the good sense to reference, or even plagiarize, while in a panic to produce a worthy syllabus while drinking old fashions late at night.
Boxes with stories in them waiting for endings. Winnowing through notebooks and folders filled with photocopies, tests, and random notes searching for hidden poems.
Letters charting the storyline between love and hate. From fifteen on. Over fifteen years ago. Has it been long enough to hand them in a clump to some checker and have it mean what?
I won't call the numbers on ancient phone lists, but they fit in a baggie. Dialed them when they were reassigned. Many of them passed on.
Counseling receipts that were waved as a plea rather than evidence.
Student loans teaching me that I'm on the wrong end of the finances.

Now it's on to books. May my old friends land on shelves with your old friends.
Traveling companions, some enjoyed my story for over five thousand miles and at least a dozen moves.  
 They make me believe in the brilliance of our subconscious minds.
Stacks to family members. Stacks to friends.
Two trips to the textbook store. (Finally got my money out of them).
A trip to the used book store.
Then the rest to the donation box. All save one.Saw that black and silver spine with the compelling title: More, Now, Again. Told my dad to hang onto it. That he might want to read it someday. It was a hardback, too good just to let go.
He tossed it in the back, and the cover opened, standing on edge. Out fell two twenties.


 I had to take a break from winnowing seven boxes of paperwork
chronicling the last decade of my existence.
Examining each sheet of paper,
briefly considering its significance, its source, and
why in the hell have I held onto most of it this long? The emotional responses, disappointment,
wanting the chance to re-write the essays for my literature classes.
Revise that poem a couple more times before submitting it.
Fight the court battles rather than taking pleas. Go down swinging. Fighting leasing fraud.
Expose all the wrong doers. Finagled more grant money for that summer class.
Wish I had actually used all those worksheets I held onto for the classes I taught, rather than reinventing the wheel.

Reverse Chronological Order

Drinking beer after breaking my arm.

Hottest summer on record. Here, the top of Mt. Garfield is burning. (Thankfully, I already got my dirt from up there). This photo was taken as I was riding my bike, on my way to break my arm and get seven stitches in my head. (That reminds me of a good Black Flag song).

Drinking beers with my buddy.

This is the outside of Emily Griffith Opportunity School to which I am now fully enrolled and paid in full for the first semester. 

Here again is Geno Saccomanno. I received a scholarship from the Saccomanno Foundation.

Erin and I went to Denver and went to a Rockies game, the series against the Dodgers when the Rocks still had a promising season ahead of them. 

On our way to meet with my adviser, we were rear ended in front of the police station. Waited forty-five minutes for an officer to arrive. (We were late. Then when we arrived, I was told that the school was restructuring and going to a new semester system, so my program wouldn't start again until August 8).

So, we went to the aquarium.

  

Don't look him in the eye. He'll turn red with animosity.

For some reason, there was a tiger. I'm for it.

Shark!

Jellyfish.

Really dug the jellyfish.

Annual meeting with my attorney. Don't let the jean shorts fool you. Just look at the size of that brow!

Somewhere in the city of Grand Junction at night, Isaac sleeps, unaware of all the good and bad about to befall him.

Yea! It's Christmas! Go get yourself some lights, kid!

Scraping By

Here's a picture of my "new" straight razor. Probably made in the '20s of last century. I decided it would be wise to try cutting on my own face before I held a blade to a stranger's throat. I won't bore you all with the details of shopping for this item, but I will admit that as usual my arrogance had made my life more difficult than necessary. All the blogs I read recommended buying a new, pre-honed, straight razor. Well, I thought, I'll need to learn to hone as well, so I bought this vintage razor and a whetstone. Let me tell you, making a blade truly razor sharp is not easy. My first shave was quite rough. On the positive side, had it been shave ready, I would have cut myself much worse. There's the pewter lining.
Next week Erin and I are headed to Denver. We're going to hit some breweries. Take in the entire series against the Dodgers. Find a place to live. And visit the school. I e-mailed the adviser again this week, asking him when would be a good time to visit him and gave the dates when we'd be in town. He replied promptly but had forgotten who I was and what program I was interested in. Hopefully, after we meet and I visit the campus, I'll have more confidence in this next life step. Mostly, it will just do Erin some good to get out of Junk City for a while. No matter what comes from this visit, we're both past due for a change. Staying here is not a viable option.

Mountain to climb

Is this Isaac's grandpa? No. This is a photo of Geno Saccomanno, a physician and pathologist who lived and worked in Grand Junction and developed methods for early detection of lung cancer. Much of his research was done on uranium miners. The relevancy to my blog? There is a scholarship founded in his name.
I sent in my application package to the Saccomanno Higher Education Foundation yesterday. This could be my best chance of finding outside funds needed to pay for the barbering program. In the application packet, there were a few lines provided to write in comments as to why I deserved the money.
To give myself an edge over the other applicants, and assuming that the committee would eventually discover my educational background anyway, I decided I couldn't apply in good consciousness without writing a full bore essay. (Where did that idiom come from? Kind of sounds opposite of its meaning). I won't bore you (see?) with the details. But to my friends, you have not been forgotten. One point I touched upon is how the idea to become a barber came up. I've always enjoyed giving my friends backyard haircuts, even if they didn't always enjoy the outcome. Maybe I feel like I owe it to them to learn this skill and get them a great haircut.
The scholarships are only available to residents of Mesa and Carbon county. At the heart of of Mesa county is the Grand Valley, my home town. And one of the iconic images here is Mt. Garfield, (pictured right).
Throughout my travels, I have learned that the citizens of most towns in America believe that the Native Americans put some kind of curse on their towns. This curse always says if you ever live here you'll be doomed to return. All of these curses have two things in common. One, you have to take the dirt with you from some sacred location when you leave to break the spell. And two, everyone who believes their town is cursed believes their town is original.
Maybe my hometown got wise to all the posers out their because we've upped the ante. Here, we're supposed to take the dirt from four locations, not just one. Perhaps this represents the four geological movements in the Grand Valley. Our curse, as mentioned, has evolved. When I was a kid, it used to just be dirt from the base of the Book Cliffs. Then it was from the top of Mt. Garfield, the figurehead of the Book Cliffs. Now the local legend says that you need dirt from Mt. Garfield, the Colorado Monument, the Grand Mesa, and the Colorado River.
Admittedly, I'm one of those dupes who believes. I keep getting drawn back here against my will. Every time I've left, there has been some long chain of misfortunes forcing my return. I've lived in several other towns in Colorado, only to return. Arizona, then returned. Washington, wound up back here. Michigan and California charted the path for my return. This time, when I leave, I'm taking precautions. I'm taking dirt. And I'll buy into our newfangled legend and get dirt from all four places.
To start with, though, I decided to get dirt from Mt. Garfield. This is the most challenging dirt to acquire, and hiking to the top of Mt. Garfield is something that I've wanted to do for a long time. (Probably to get the dirt). If I ever return to Grand Junction, I'll want it to be on my terms. But hey, then there will probably be some clause in the curse that says if you leave and take dirt, you can't come back. With the lack of opportunity here, the low wages, the resort town rental prices, and angry conservative mentality, that's a chance I'm willing to take.

Tebowing to my Typewriter

Admittedly, this is a cheap way to gain some hits. No matter what I have to say about my project here, I know nothing will garner more attention from the web than repeating the name Tebow. I do have legitimate news to report on my quest to barberdom, and yes, I will tie it in with Tebow, and yes, this will turn into a football rant.
First, the pertinent stuff: I'm a royal boob. (Have you ever considered a literal image of that idiom? In my mind, there's a velvet pillow with tassels involved.) I mixed up the start dates for the program. For some reason, I thought the next session was April 29. It's actually April 2. That is way too soon for us to pick up and move to Denver. So, I'm spinning my wheels until the following semester which is May 29. See how confusing this gets? I majored in English; you do the math. The good news is that now I have extra time to work on my next novel.
Second, more pertinent stuff: I'm not the only royal boob. Remember me mentioning that the person who will be my academic adviser told me that if I mailed him a copy of my diploma that he would waive my entrance exam? I decided to follow up on that the other day. As usual, my adviser was too busy to answer the phone, so I called the registrars office and they were clueless, saying only they could waive my test and who did I talk to? I told them. Then they back peddled and said that I'd need to speak with my adviser, that only he could waive the test for me. (To quote some tubular dude from the eighties, No duh!)
I sent him an e-mail. His response was to the effect of "refresh my memory of who you are and what you want." I did, and he responded that he never received the copy of my diploma, but he'd go ahead and waive the test anyway. Wow.
In the meantime, I found out that there is a new barbering program starting up in Delta, which is only forty miles from Grand Junction. While Delta isn't the most sought after destination in Colorado, it is next to the Black Canyon. There would be great fishing, and it would be an easier transition. The person I spoke to on the phone was incredibly friendly and informative. She is the director of the program, and I got hold of her on the first call.
The problem is, their program only begins once a year at the end of August. And then, it might not start if they don't have enough people enrolled. I can't wait around four more months hoping on a maybe. We're sticking to the plan to go to Denver. The Emily Griffith Opportunity School came very highly recommended to me by several barbers. And besides, we'll be closer to Coors Field and Mile High. (Any stadium in Denver that hosts the Broncos will always be Mile High to me and not insert-the-name-of-a-corporate-advertisement-here-field).
Now, as promised, I have more to say about Tebow than he has a nice buzz cut. No matter what your belief, Tebow is a testament to what hard work and perseverance will get you. We've all seen the commercial: when they said he couldn't, it just pushed him harder.
My wife and I were talking about what makes a person successful. We talked about determination, (if your like us, the American dream is now referred to with a sneer) and she brought up a good point. A lot of people might dedicate their life to some pursuit, but if they're honest, they're not really pushing 100%.
That struck me. I mean, I've dedicated my life to writing. I've made sacrifices and watched opportunities pass me by because of my artistic inclination. I flunked out of college when I was nineteen because I chose instead to stay up every night working on a novel. I quit a construction job that was so strenuous I was coming home too tired to write, which eventually lead to me losing my truck and home. I went back to school for writing, went to graduate school, survived on less than ten thousand a year all in the name of writing. But at the end of the day, can I say I yearned for success as badly as the bear yearns for a place to sleep when the snow falls? No. There were many beers, naps, fishing trips, and sporting events that took priority.
Recently, I completed a novel. Gave it to two readers. Edited it five times. Submitted it to two agents and three small presses. Called it quits. But what would Tebow do? Give it to ten readers. Edit it fifteen times. Submit it to twenty agents and fifty presses. But damn, that's a lot of work.
Sure, novels don't write themselves, but to me, the success of a piece of writing isn't measured by how many people have read it.
Lazy people rely on talent.
Maybe Tebow isn't a "pure passer." Nobody held his hand and walked him down the path. He woke up every day and surged forth at 100%. He beat the odds. He was a success before he walked onto the field.
Basically, what I'm saying is, the way unclear, the path difficult, with or without help, I will persevere. (Hell, I've made it this far without giving it 100%).
Now, the rant:
At the start of last football season, along with all of Bronco nation, I was pissed and stunned that Orton got the call to start, but while most people were chanting that it was Tebow Time, I was chanting Quinn to Win. Whatever. I've been converted. As much as I want this blog to all tie together and revolve around one theme, I just have to call bullshit on the Broncos organization for talking to Peyton Manning. I really thought my days of screaming at Elway and calling him an idiot were over. I guess not.
Gripe number one: how come we have stood behind lousy quarterbacks and watched them have season after season of epic failure, (I'm specifically talking about Brian Griese and Kyle Orton here), and then when we get a quarterback with some promise, and the franchise does everything they can to undermine him? What is hysterical about all this Peyton Manning crap is that I bet I'm more pissed about it than Tebow.
Gripe number two: If Peyton Manning was the quarterback last year and had the same exact targets to throw to as Tebow, all we would have seen would have been even more balls bounce off the chest plates of the receivers.
Gripe number three: instead of spending all that money on some "legend," why not recruit some young talent and build a team that will be solid for years to come?
Gripe number four: when Manning's 30 million dollar body is convulsing on the field after re-breaking his neck, who will the team rally behind?
Given the choice, I'd rather watch Tebow lose than Manning win.

Wholelottaauqanet

No, this isn't an action photo.

Nothing shapes our perspective of a person as much as hair. This is a photo of my wife that was taken two years ago. We were having fun with booze and hairspray. (Don't confuse the two). It takes about a full can of Aquanet and a twelve pack of Coors to charge twenty inches of hair. I highly recommend Aquanet for all your mohawking needs. It smells better than egg whites but doesn't have the staying power of glue.
Once upon a time, I was actually accosted in the mall by a little old lady because I had a mohawk. Nothing arouses fear, envy, and contempt like a mohawk. I simply told the old lady that I had enough social grace not to say anything about her homogenized blue hair. Enough of this, I've already written an essay about this story. If you'd like to learn more about it, let me know.
It hit me last night that I have really matured as a writer. Not because I finished editing my novel five times over. Not because of the degrees or teaching. Not the publications. Not the query letters and honing of my resume. No. The proof is that I have avoided using many cheap puns and cliches about hair and hair cutting. There's been a couple, but this is really a loaded subject. Just think about the name of your local salon. Hair We Are. Sophisticut. Snip in Time. Grateful Head. Eclips. Shear Envy. Even the chain stores are punny. (For more on this, with pictures to prove it, check out this page: http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/the-best-and-worst-punny-hair-salon-names)
So, someday, years down the road, what will I name my shop? Well, that's a real head scratcher. (See the dangers I'm up against hear?). Ultimately, I want to live and work somewhere with a nice trout stream I can fish everyday. I got to thinking, I could keep a small selection of flies in my shop. Maybe even a small assortment of rods and reels. Why not? Something needs to accompany the decor, which will inevitably include a photo of a mountain lake and a stuffed trout. What else could I name this barber shop besides Hair on the Fly? Suggestions? The cheesier the better.
Just to keep you all abreast of the legitimates of my quest, I have secured funding for my program. For those of you who may consult this blog, as I consulted many pages myself as a person curious to figure out how to find money for a program that isn't eligible for financial aid, I must admit that my funds have been offered to me from my father. I am still going to apply for the few grants and scholarships available to me. See what happens. I'd like to pay my own tuition, but it is nice not having to worry about it. Thanks again, Dad. Free haircuts for as long as you have hair!