Splitting Hairs

At craft night I am issued an "audience only" permit to enter. Over the years I have proven myself untrustworthy with adult scissors, craft glue, construction paper, and the ever-popular multi-colored glitter.

The family hushed up an incident with the hole punch that resulted in a cunningly shaped scar in the webbing between my thumb and index finger, and once, before the authorities caught me and issued the proper warrants, I sewed a soccer banner to the leg of my pants.

So why, in a blast of optimism and excitement, did my husband, who has not previously shown signs of dementia, say, "Why don't you cut my hair?"

Excuse me? What part of "head trauma" does he not understand? Has he been watching 25 years of medical shows and hasn't learned anything about blunt instruments or pointy objects or crime scene tape? Didn't he learned anything from George Clooney on ER? If I am legally obligated to refrain from cutting out paper snowflakes, why is he giving me a license to plant a new part where his cow lick used to be?

But if he's willing, who am I to refuse his final request? I fired up the weed eater and revved the motor.

"Okay. How about in the kitchen with Professor Plum and the lead pipe?"

"Don't be silly. All you have to do is run the electric clippers over it. How hard can it be?"

"How hard can it be" is the second leading cause of death and disfiguring injuries in the United States.

"The first is "Hey, man. Look what I can do," which generally follows, "One night, we were drinking beer." The Surgeon General suggests that no one under the age of 18 be allowed to utter these words unless accompanied by a responsible adult who gave birth to them or by a First Responder authorized to wield the Jaws of Life.

I was considering my options as a single widow, rounding off possible life insurance benefits to the decimal point, and deciding whether I would have to initiate the grapefruit diet before I could win the affections of the wealthy bachelor at church, when the Captain of the kitchen shears cast the deciding vote.

"I'll give you the twenty bucks I would have spent on a haircut."

I dropped the weedeater. "Show me the money."

He proffered a wrinkled picture of Andrew Jackson on a bill. I don't know where he got the thing, but he and Andy must have been schoolmates in the little one room schoolhouse at Possum Trot. I snatched the money before he realized that I would be wielding what amounted to whirling electric razors aimed at his head.

He settled into the chair and, since it would be a first offense and I would likely get off with a stern warning and have my clippers booted, I agreed to give it a whirl.

He grinned. "Take it off Sweeney Todd."

From the looks of things, he was ready to go to the big barber pole in the sky.

I set the shears to stun and felt the power of 50,00 volts run down my arm. I raised the clippers high in the air and laughed maniacally as lightning bolts pierced the night air.

"Stop giggling, would you? It's creepy. And turn on the lights so you can see what you're doing. You almost Van Goghed my ear."

The haircut proceeded uneventfully, even if I did have a little trouble with control around the neckline. He'll have a brand new patch of sunburn when August rolls around.

Glad to avoid a trip to the barber, he gave me a kiss and headed for the shower.

From the front, he can't really appreciate the fact that his new neckline resembles what erosion does to beachfront property. I don't think the stylist police will hand out any jail time, though. With the amount of hair we're dealing with, it's not like the crime of the century.

But I'll cop to a misdemeanor.

None if by Foot

In light of the fact that police officers in Wellford, South Carolina are now forbidden to chase suspects upon director order of the mayor, the Honorable Sallie Peake, I have taken the liberty of composing a questionnaire for wrongdoers who find themselves in need of justice. This way anyone engaged in crime-committing for fun and profit can arrest themselves and save the city the trouble they’re having with nasty Workers Compensation complications when police officers get hurt in the line of duty.


Dear Mr. or Mrs. [Name Spelled Wrong] or Current Resident:

You may or may not have already committed a crime! As a service, the City is providing you with this handy questionnaire to determine if you are due a penalty.

In the past six months have you or anyone in your family or gang been involved in one or more of the following nefarious activities:

Wearing socks that didn’t match
Chewing gum in class
Failing to stop for a school bus
Robbing a liquor store with or without the aid of a springloaded comb that looks like a switchblade
Sashaying out of the A&P with a pack of Ribeyes stuffed in your pants and a bottle of A-1 in your back pocket
Other: _________________

If so, you may be eligible for a fine. Walk, don’t run to the nearest police officer and complete the prison record application, or visit the public usage computers at your local library to find the online form. You may also call the toll free number printed on the back of every can of Bud Light sold in the city limits. Call now. Operators are standing by! (Unless they’re on break because Lurlene is in a snit about somebody stealing her lunch from the break room refrigerator again.)

For this week only, we’re offering specials on vandalism and petit larceny. Call before naptime and exchange your monetary fine for community service work. There are always important public service tasks to be done. After all, the mayor’s car doesn’t wash itself!

Now that you don’t need to waste precious time running from the law, you will probably find extra hours in the day for graffiti-related and other crimes. It may be difficult to find value-added activities due to the fact that the city has few opportunities for employment. After all, not everyone has the talent required for a position at the gentlemen’s club. Remember--a career in the performance arts requires years of dedication and commitment to function at professional levels. Our mayor enforces the hospitality tax to support this important level of initiative. In the meantime, if you indulge in spray paint art to pass the lonesome pre-dawn hours, be sure to add your name and address in the upper left-hand corner of your work so that your notice of incarceration will find its way to the appropriate place.

If increased criminal activity has taken up all your spare time, please contact the city to find out how you can benefit from our new Arrest Yourself policy. You may even be interested in becoming a part of our stationary police force and learn to fight crime by standing still. Drop by Town Hall today, You’ll be glad you did! But remember: don’t run. The mayor is the only one still authorized to chase bad guys!

(Click on the title of this post for an exciting link to a YouTube video of the mayor in action!)

Super Powers

Every time the kids go see a movie where some grown man is pulling on a mask and a pair of stretch pants to head out to the streets for an evening of crime fighting, they come home discussing how great it would be to have super powers. I’ve been on the pulling side of stretch pants many times in my life and I can tell you right now that if you can get the deceitful things on without blowing out a seam or rupturing a kidney, you already have superpowers. If you can do it without ruining a new manicure, you can be leader of the team.

The last time I tried to put on a pair of stretch jeans, I lost two press-on nails, a layer of fake tan, and three pounds in sweat currency. When I stood up, I realized I hadn’t put on my shoes. Basic science and a hearty dose of common sense told me that if I bent over, the ensuing explosion would result in a pair of shredded pants hanging from an elastic waistband. Don’t tell me I don’t know how the Hulk feels. I went barefoot that day.

I do have a certain reverence for Superman, though. Anybody who can change into blue tights and a red Speedo in 2.5 seconds in a telephone booth possesses some natural skills. However due to changes in technology, there are precious few telephone booths in existence, and I just can’t see the whole scenario having the same effect if Superman dashed into a Sprint kiosk at the mall. Superman is apt to emerge from the booth with six rows of sparkly phone bling, a Velcro carrying case with snap-tight closure, and a weekend of free anytime minutes.

Dressing myself is a remarkable talent, but not my only claim to extraneous powers. I can tell by the ring of my cell phone if Son Number 1 had an unfortunate encounter with the steamer at work, Son 2 needs money for gas, or the cat just produced a bouncing baby hairball in an undisclosed but widely traveled location in my newly carpeted hallway. My Mom-sense gives me a jolt when, somewhere in my living room, a child is feeding toxic-gas-producing hot dogs to the Dachshund. And I feel an overwhelming disturbance in the Force when anyone related to me by blood, marriage, or pet adoption dries their sneakers in the toaster.

All in all, I find that movie-type superpowers are over-rated. I never saw a single member of the Fantasic Four who could remove a jelly glass from the flushomatic on the first try. For that, you need a lot more than a cape and coloredy support hose.

You need a Mom with the plumber on speed dial.