I was beginning to run out of options. The hair on my head had grown to such a length that I had to use a comb. That means at least 15 seconds every morning that I’ll never get back.
No comb? I turn into “Doc” on “Back to Future.” If I comb a part in my hair, and then put on my reading glasses, I can look in the mirror and say, “Hello Grandpa Magdefrau.”
Not that there’s anything wrong with taking after either of my grandfathers. People tell me I’m a combination of the two.
There is also the Brylcreem route. It’s what Dad used for years with no incident. Except the red and white tube of hair styling gel looks a lot like a container of Colgate toothpaste. No, he didn’t brush his teeth with the greasy kid’s stuff, but he did style his hair one morning with the other tube and noticed a strange, white coating in his hair. It looked different, but he had no cavities in his hair.
No excuses from now on, because, salons, tattoo parlors and barbershops are open. I’ll for sure be getting the hair cut after the backlog has eased. But are we mandated to get a tattoo?
* * *
One of the only outdoor activities allowed is golfing. I managed to work up the courage to golf a round a few mornings ago. It was early, so there were no witnesses. I have a few goals when golfing. I want my drive to go past the women’s tee. I batted about .500 on that. I wanted the ball to go farther than my tee. That can be tough. The inner struggle continued until the ninth hole. The tee box was in view of the “A” team that was in the fairway of the first hole. With them watching, I just wanted the ball to go in the air. It did. The second shot put me near the green. That’s unheard of.
Another goal achieved was getting in a good walk. The walk was interrupted every 20 yards to hit the ball.
The score didn’t matter. I know I had only two-double bogeys. Wait. Those were my best holes. Most of the time I was happy with double par. As with most things that frustrate me, that one thing that occasionally goes right makes me want to come back and try it again. Maybe I can do two right things in row.
If I do the wrong thing several times in a row, that’s not failure. That’s jazz.