Decades Old Musings from the Barber Shop

February 05, 2009

Every time I get my hair cut, they get to the part where they trim the neck hair, and I always -- and I mean always for the past fifteen years -- think, "I wonder if I'm looking like Pookie on my neck yet?"

I even thought about Pookie when they shaved my little kid's neck last week.

Based on the amount of time yesterday that the old Chinese guy spent shaving my neck, I would say that I'm probably getting to be Pookiesque. On top of that, I don't ever remember needing all of the ear-shaving I get now. On the up side, he did tell me as I was leaving, "You have very nice hair."

So that's good to hear.

In case you were wondering, Pookie was this guy in college (who truly went by that name, although I suspect that's not the name on his birth certificate) who had an inordinately hairy neck. In my mind's eye, Pookie is still collecting ever LSU sporting event on VHS tape, and he's nervously counting down the days until there is no existing technology to play his collection.

Pookie's opposite in hairiness was Paul, who was severely balding even during our youthful prime, and who spent countless wasted hours lamenting his virginity. And then he also claimed never to have masturbated, so perhaps it built up some sort of immense internal pressure which forced the hair right out of its follicles.

I know a lot of weird people.

While I'm thinking about it, there was another weirdo -- Ned -- who haven't thought about more than a few times since he upped and left town to globetrot with his employer, the U. S. Army. He showed up in a dream a couple of weeks ago, and in that dream, he had spent the whole fifteen years since I've seen him as some sort of food flavor inventor. He had developed all of the different flavors that we used to get in our fraternity house. He had them packaged as little cups of foam, kind of like whipped cream.

I started my tasting with the "Chris Noel's cologne" flavor. It was a little like Red Bull.

Then, I tried Mama Dee's corn dogs. They were as bad as ever, but they did capture the authentic flavor of horse meat surrounded by packed stale cornbread that I used to detest with my entire heart and soul.

I was trying to prove that he didn't really invent every flavor from the house, so I asked to try the cockroach. He asked whether I wanted the adult or juvenile flavor. Cockroach, apparently, has subtle characteristics. Not unlike a fine wine.

I don't remember trying the cockroach in my dream, but I don't think the flavor could really be appreciated. His cups of foam left you without all the crispy bits of exoskeleton that you get when you eat a real cockroach. Or so I presume. I ate a grasshopper in Thailand, and it was extremely bitter tasting. The worst part was the little chips floating around between the lips and gums. I couldn't get rid of those damned things for a half hour or so.

After that, I asked to try the flavor of my own farts after a night of drinking cheap beer in college bars. He had a foam with that flavor, and it was so strong in my dream, that it made me jump up, awake.

I suppose a lot of weird people consider me one of their own weird acquaintances.