Recently it was time for my winter haircut. As I sat in her chair, given over to her tender ministrations, my hairstylist at the Pastime Pool Hall and Barbershop told me she got lucky. A Nashville radio station was giving away two tickets to the Ronnie Millsap concert at the Ryman to the ninth caller.
“I called and he said I was the first caller. I said I’ll hang up and call back. I did and was the ninth caller and got two tickets. Well, I hope I didn’t bust his eardrums when I screamed. They like loud winners, you know.”
I nodded but really didn’t know.
She asked a girlfriend to go to the concert with her and said friend was in the barbershop at that very moment getting a highlight job. “She’s going to look great tonight (at the Millsap concert.)”
Over in the corner, a Ronnie M. CD made its way though the talented blind singer’s greatest hits collection. (“A Stranger in the House” still gets your attention.)
I told her that many, many years ago I saw Millsap in a small Memphis club where he was doing rock and roll and that years later I played some of his stuff as I struggled with the guitar. She thought that was wonderful. She’s a positive, upbeat, good soul, a great one and I do love her.
While her highlighting friend waited with her head swathed in plastic (something chemical goes on here) my stylist – who by the way has a fashionable right bicep tattoo – cut my hair. She does this with care, no slashing and burning.
When it came time to pay up, I slipped her extra bucks for drinks before the concert. She was thrilled. You’d think she’d won the lottery.
I stole a mirror look, admiring the new haircut and left with the certain knowledge that life is better lived around happy people. I’ll see her next for the midsummer trim.
‘Boro Watching:
His body is thin enough to break in a casual accident – a fall, a cold snap, a brush with a stray dog or bumper. He’s in from the cold, sitting in the plate glass window of a supermarket out where the shopping carts await customers.
His long, gray beard is dull and reflects no sunlight as he sits on one of the self-propelled shopping carts catching the sun exploding through the plate glass, a blessed relief from the winds of December. His gaze remains riveted on the parking lot. He doesn’t look up when you walk by, dreading the moment the manager invites him to leave.
He’s passing his hours in the sunlight.
Passing his days.
Passing his life watching a parking lot as the sun moves to the west and fades and the day is done.
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