c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-24)
The global pandemic of COVID-19 resonated everywhere. In northeastern Ohio, and around the world. But in the Ice household, its effects were lessened by my own disability and willful isolation. As someone already disposed to spending long periods at home, without much interpersonal contact, recommended standards for social distancing were not difficult to observe. Going out to eat with my friend Janis became the primary casualty. As Chinese buffets closed all around our area, we lost face-to-face contact. This habit had brought us together initially, in 2009. So, it meant that our friendship had to continue through wireless connections. Our lively conversations continued, but in the form of shared photos and internet memes.
By belly grumbled while wishing for Pepper Steak or General Tso’s Chicken.
Another loss during the lockdown era related to maintaining rigorous standards of personal grooming. I had grown accustomed to visiting my local Best Cuts for professional hair care. Yet after being dumped into early retirement, and then surviving the difficulties of these visits under Coronavirus restrictions, I realized that keeping my corporate look was not a standard worth continuing.
I no longer had to impress company owners, or those in top-line management.
My last stop at a barbering station came in Chardon, shortly after the peril of this calamity had first been announced. Patrons were instructed to sign in, and then wait outside in their vehicles, as each one was called for their turn in the stylist’s chair. But I entered the shop directly, owing to a misunderstanding. Because I stayed vertical only with assistance from two walking sticks, the clerks inside were merciful. They directed me to a lone seat by the front windows. A place of exile that made me think I ought to be wearing a pointed, dunce cap as a sign of medical banishment.
When my name was called, a cheerful young woman offered direction. Someone with a colorful frock, pink leggings, and lots of makeup applied skillfully. She pawed through my scalp with plastic gloves, and honked from under an oversized mask. Her appearance made me think of a 1980’s Rock video.
“You’ve still got plenty up top, sir! I would guess that you’re around my father’s age. Most men have gone bald by that point, unless they have hair restoration or use Rogaine!”
I laughed politely, and agreed with her assessment.
“My genetic heritage is strong apparently. Granddad passed away at 88 and still had his dome covered. In a snow-white hue of course, but he figured that was better than nothing at all...”
We debated over current trends, as she pointed to huge signboards that were hung on every wall of the facility. None of the depicted models looked older than 25. It made me feel ancient and strangely out-of-touch. Her counseling only deepened my anxiety.
“There isn’t really a particular style anymore. I get guys who want a spiky look, or shaved on the sides, or maybe highlights and cut around the ears, or long in the front. Our generation is totally free! Do what you want, it doesn’t matter.”
I chortled a bit, but tried not to move around too much while she stayed busy with her tonsorial tools.
“Back in the 1970’s, I let it grow long! Mine was way below my shoulders. I had a beard back then too, not many of my classmates did in that era. Big mustaches were more common...”
The bubbly blonde could have been an Instagram influencer. I felt her hot breath tickle my right ear as she was working.
“Seventies, you say? Oh my god, that’s a long time ago. My parents didn’t even know each other. I see pictures online and they make me giggle. With lots of rhinestones, and bell bottoms over platform shoes! What a crazy life that must have been! I like the old Disco tunes!”
Her naïve reflection made me gasp.
“I thought Disco sucked! So did my stoner friends. We listened to Peter Frampton, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Humble Pie, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, or Pink Floyd. Everything was different then, we never worried about catching a virus or cyber-attacks or school shootings. The computer lab we used had a row of devices with reel-to-reel tape drives, they were sized like a modern soda machine. Gigantic compared to what students use today...”
The primping pro finished her task more quickly than I expected. She stood back and admired the cut while congratulating herself.
“Would you like some mousse or gel today, sir?”
I flinched at the thought of anything sticky in my mop of gray and brown.
“Nah, I’ll just be wearing a baseball cap anyway. Thank you!”
After returning to my rural homestead, a realization struck like lightning. The familiar exercise I had just undertaken was outdated and unnecessary. With traditional career pursuits sidelined, and most days now spent at the home-office desk or drinking beer on my porch, this arcane ritual was one I could jettison. Nobody in the neighborhood would notice.
A time-warp adventure back to the 70’s was possible, at last.
As weeks and months went by, my locks lengthened on their own. Left unpruned, they grew vigorously. After a year of neglect, I had begun to look like a caveman of sorts. A style I would have been happy to project in yonder days. I guessed that this reversion to an earlier, more liberated appearance would garner little notice from family members and friends. Yet this supposition was wholly incorrect.
Squawking began when my hair had reached a point of hippie extremism.
My sister was the first to comment. She thought that this taking of liberties was indefensible for someone who had reached such maturity when charted by the calendar. A fellow resident of my isolated community offered to clipper away this sinful plumage, in deference to more modern preferences. The messy shag on my skull seemed to rattle her nerves. But a family doctor who I visited regularly throughout the year offered a most damning view of my renewed interest in going natural. She advised that carrying around such a manic coiffure was unhealthy.
“We tell people to shave everything off! All that carpet only invites COVID to linger. It’s a danger you don’t need! Be clean and stay healthy, Rodney!”
Her stern advice made me think for a moment. But on the way home, I turned the volume of my dashboard radio up to its maximum. The signal of a Classic Rock station in Cleveland exploded from speakers in both doors. I thumped rhythmically on the steering wheel while driving. And sang along to George Thorogood & his Delaware Destroyers.
“I was a rebel from the day I left school
Grew my hair long and broke all the rules
I’d sit and listen to my records all day
With big ambitions of when I could play
My parents taught me what life was about
So I grew up the type they’d warned me about
They said my friends were just an unruly mob
And I should get a haircut and get a real job...”
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