I needed a haircut, badly, and called my barber, last Friday. Yeah, I have a barber. Maybe stylist is more hip or cool sounding, but the dude cuts my hair and does a great job. Of course, the title of barber might imply that he’s less expensive, perhaps, but it seems fair. Long gone are the days of shave and a haircut…two bits. He’s meticulous — a perfectionist in his craft, at least, and he makes me look good, which ain’t easy.
He told me he was booked for the day, but might be in on Saturday, if his boys’ soccer tournament didn’t run longer than usual.
“No problem, just give me a call,” I said, “if you come in.” I’m flexible and getting really shaggy, so my time is his time. “Otherwise, put me down for Wednesday at 11 am.”
He agreed and I jotted it on the back-side of Friday’s Far Side, my daily desk calendar. I love Larson — in a “Hey, bro’, that’s some funny shit!” sorta way. We probably wouldn’t hug or anything. I don’t need to sniff his markers or prove anything by doing weird psycho fan nonsense. Just healthy respect for a talented artist.
So, Saturday came and went — no call — and today rolled around, but my finely tuned instincts told me that . . . he didn’t remember.
As I walked through the park, enjoying the palm-filtered sunshine and crispness of the morning breeze, here, in beautiful Santa Barbara, I had little to complain about. I must persevere and find something, however, because that is what I do. Complaining can be difficult, at times, when life is mostly rosy, but I love the challenge and will stubbornly snoop and poke around until I uncover a fat stinkbug just begging to be squished.
My gut sent a signal up to my leonine brain, sated and surveying the picturesque terrain, and said that I should probably give the barber a call before walking all the way downtown. Nah, I like to walk and needed the exercise. Besides, my schedule could accommodate a hiccup or two and I certainly wouldn’t make a scene about it, anyway. Sure enough, upon my arrival, my Santa Barber, uh, had that blinking deer-in-the-headlight look, which read, “Hey, what are you doing here?”
He had forgotten and my instincts had served me admirably, again. We laughed it off and he invited me back in forty-five minutes. Life is funny, if you remember to laugh. I had an errand to run and the day was meant for enjoying — outside in the sun. Strolling past the Courthouse Sunken Gardens, one of my favorite spots in the downtown area, I headed towards the coffee shop for a mocha — my preferred legal buzz.
The S.B.P.D. had four or five guys zip-tied and sitting on the curb beside the Library on Anapamu. Their eyebrow piercings, tattoos, and spiked hairdos screamed “look at me” like a row of blinking neon billboards along the seedy street bordering LAX — a late-night landing strip for fliers getting high or sinking low.
An air of rebelliousness wafted past the Arts & Letters Café and several lunch patrons caught the unpleasant scent. Apparently, so had the local gens d’armes. Don’t mess with the town cops, I thought. They’ve just received a nice pay raise.
In the sanctity of the corner coffee shop, I was grateful to be able to stand in line at the counter, not minding the wait, for two reasons: One, it beats being zip-tied with the confiscated contents of your pockets incarcerated in tiny sacks, behind you on the curb, like snuffed holiday luminaries; Two, I recognized the jean-clad derriere ahead of me in line and it was a far lovelier distraction than the disheveled bums I passed, earlier. I consider myself a connoisseur of fine bums.
When the elegant face of the Latina girl turned to order her latte, I realized that I had followed her for a couple blocks about twenty minutes prior, nearly five blocks away. Ah, it’s a small world, after all — queue Tinkerbell — but I wouldn’t want to get stuck in a Disneyland chorus loop of multi-cultured surrealism, unless she was along for the ride. Her face and form could float my boat past any ol’ port in a storm.
Is there such a thing as coincidence, or did I just miss an opportunity? Are there inherent meanings to life’s many moments, or are they manufactured sans label so we may apply our own when they arrive? The cosmic math is mind-boggling. All I know is that as I secured the lid on my drink and slipped the cup condom up till it was a snug fit — safe sips for tender fingertips, I always say — this Latin angel hovered a mere harp’s quiver away stirring her latte. Our eyes never met. Paradise lost?
When I walked to the corner of State and Victoria, beeping the silver crosswalk button with my elbow, I felt a familiar energy beside me and, when the light turned in our favor, Ms Latina Latte stepped off the curb with me. For a moment, we walked as one — a lifetime, together, rushed past me like the electric shuttle hurrying to the harbor and, by the time we reached the other side, the sensation had subsided, silently pulling away as some dreams are wont to do.
Again, she sacheted ahead, perfuming the morning air with a wiggle that made me stare, and though I was left behind, entranced by her behind, I didn’t mind. Once, it seemed, she glanced back to see if I was following her — yes, happily — but my stalking her was innocently coincidental. She just happened to be going my way. Isn’t that the basis for any great relationship, no matter how long it lasts?
The May-December analogy doesn’t apply to daydreams, however. In my mind, I’m forever eighteen — sans baggage, sans wrinkles, sans gray. Her hip-hugger jeans wouldn’t walk away and, since I get to say what that means, I’d rip the page from the dictionary that holds the word unrequited.
A tiny red rose — nestled in the smell of her back — begged for the vase of my heart, and I gently placed it there. My Latina daydream faded and I was, once again, walking down the street, alone, wondering how I made it that far without being hit by a car. I pulled my baseball cap low over my eyes to shield them from further distractions, snapping back to reality, and wondered if the snow on the summit would make it past another spring.
I needed a haircut, badly.
The Kat
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