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.