It's that time of year again. Time to discuss the bizarre, the scary, the out of the ordinary. Until my "COLA" blog was dropped mercilessly into my lap yesterday, this is the blog I intended to post.
I was recently contemplating the age-old question: What is more dangerous, the barber's chair or the electric chair? Okay, well maybe it's not an age-old question. Maybe I'm the only one who has ever asked it. Maybe it was a brand-new question. But it was very pertinent. It first slipped into my idle thoughts as the initial stream of blood began to trickle down the side of my head where my buddy the barber had tried to slice off my ear with a straight razor. Now, this barber has a real catchy name, a real innocent sounding name, on his marquee. I'm not going to give you the real name (not to be nice to him, but out of fear it might make him come after my other ear!) But this innocent-sounding name is pretty close, and it will do just fine: "Billy G's." How does that come across to you? Pretty innocuous, huh? Sounds like some innocent goat milker or track coach. Or even one of the Brady Bunch. I guess that's why when my ear landed in a puddle on the floor I was a little taken aback. I mean, when I told Billy to just "take a little off the sides," I had something different in mind. I know my ears might be considered little by some, but come on! (Okay, I'll be fair. He didn't really cut off my whole ear.)
Anyway, back to my war wound in the barber chair. It's not like my hair is flesh-colored, right? I mean, it's pretty dark, and it seems very discernible from my ears, in texture, if nothing else. And conversely, my ears aren't dark brown with little coarse lines all over them. So how do you not notice that there is a place in there where the hair stops and the ear begins? Finally, I came to the conclusion that Billy G collects ears. Like maybe every hundredth customer who comes in, he's the lucky representative of all those who plop down in that blood-stained chair. Billy just casually lops an ear off and puts it on a string in his office. Maybe that's how he keeps track of how many customers he has. You know, for tax purposes or something. But I could conjecture all day.
To give Billy the benefit of the doubt, I did tell him I was getting my hair cut as part of my Halloween get-up, but I think he was taking it a bit to the extreme. Besides, I wasn't wanting to look like a blood-smeared ghoul for Halloween. All I wanted to look like was the other scariest thing I could think of: a missionary!!! :o)
My wound stopped breaking open and bleeding after a few days, giving me enough reason to realize that at least that time the electric chair would probably have been a touch more dangerous than Billy. But at least the executioner gets rid of you fast, not a piece at a time.
It's funny, I felt Billy messing with my wound a few times after he did it, so I knew it had to be bad, but he never said a word about it. NOTHING. No, "Oops! Sorry about that." No, "Dang, I got my razor too sharp today." No, "Hey, buddy, why don't you keep your big floppy ears out of my way." Nothing! And then when I got out in the car my wife informed me that the slice to my ear was only the worst of many wounds I had incurred in that chair. I had them all over the back of my neck and my other ear, too. I guess by then I was numb to the pain.
Before I had the missionary haircut I was pondering on going as Hellboy (which is a great movie, by the way). I guess I should have stuck to plan A. Incidentally, I've included a photo of the new, one-eared me. Just for Halloween.