Random Thought

I know I’m taking a big chance by saying this, but every time Katy Perry’s song, Firework, comes on the radio I really, really feel like I can do anything. Seriously. Run a four-minute mile. Dunk a basketball. Anything. 


 
Attribution: Sehsuan at en.wikipedia 

The Waters of Samoa

The Waters of Samoa

 My wife sprawls on the surface next to me, her masked face peering down into water so clear it’s almost like no water at all.  Below, hundreds of fish, a thousand maybe, flash their silver underbellies as they dart in unison, controlled, it seems, by a single brain.  We fan our hands against the pull of the current, what the Samoans call “ava.” It’s not a dangerous ava though. We’re safe.  

We came to see the turtle. But he’s off somewhere else, doing whatever turtles do—eating or sleeping or burying eggs in the sand. Not that much different from our life here, actually, only instead of eggs we bury our children right up to their laughing faces and then watch them wriggle out to find hermit crabs.

If this were Hawaii or the Caribbean, I’d be swimming into people; bikinied bodies lining the beach, reclining, offering their flesh, a malignant sacrifice to the heathen gods of beauty as currently defined. But this is Samoa, and on a Saturday afternoon we have the beach and, it feels, the entire Pacific Ocean to ourselves.

Why is that I wonder? Must be a comfort thing. The flight to Hawaii is long enough without an extra five hours arching up over the fattest part of the earth and into the southern hemisphere. The boil water notices for e. coli can’t be good for tourism either. And then there’s the fetid smell rising up off the tuna factory, spreading out over the harbor like a fog. But that’s all on the other end of the island. Here the breeze smells only of hair-stiffening salt, and the water is clean and warm, washing away the stick of sweat and the heat of the equatorial sun.

I look down at the coral, reaching up to me like colorful fingers pushing through the sand. It’s dangerous, the coral. Sharp. More likely to hurt you than a shark they say. But coral doesn’t slip silently through the water toward you like a shadow, pushed by the whip of a muscular tail. 

My wife gives me the thumbs up and then her flippered feet begin chopping at the water, pushing her clumsily toward the shore. Even with our artificially elongated and flattened feet we’re not well equipped for movement in the water; the fish must think us so awkward, so uncivilized, like fat, baseball-cap-wearing Americans in Paris. 

On Monday I drive into Pago Pago to pick up a package. They don’t deliver packages to our post office box on the west end of the island, just letters and notices of packages.

On the way back, I stop at the Lyndon B. Johnson Tropical Medical Center, a hospital that looks salvaged from World War II, like a black and white memory my grandfather might dredge up on his way to a real hospital somewhere in the States.       

My friend the artist is there to have puss drained from his foot. We met by chance and our friendship grew over stacks of faded art books, images of Van Gogh with his bandaged ear, cypress trees, Monet’s beaches and fields of poppies. Who would’ve ever thought I’d find myself sitting for hours in a Samoan hovel, fans clacking, ants marching single-file to a crumb, looking at Impressionist, Post-Impressionist, and Renaissance paintings.

“Hello old friend,” I say as I come into the hospital room.

“Who’s there?” the artist asks. He’s gruff like that and sounds gruffer because of the phlegm thick and yellow in the clear plastic hole in his neck, a tracheotomy he once told me he didn’t think he really needed. You take your chances at this hospital.

Today my friend looks like Vincent Van Gogh or at least what Vincent might have looked like if he’d survived his insanity—straggly white beard growing down his neck, sharp nose, sharp eyes.

“It’s me,” I say. “What they got you in for this time?”

“Oh it’s you. Hello.” His face softens but not much. It’s his way. I know he’s happy to see me.

“I brought you a picture,” I say and slide a faded computer printout of a Monet onto the tray next to the food he hasn’t eaten.

“What’s that?”

“Have a look.” He sees it. He tells me it’s very nice. I point out how the red sails pull in the color from the top of the bluff. It’s the way he sees color in a painting; I’m repeating things he’s told me.

“It’s very nice,” he tells me again and I know he likes it.

We talk for a while. He complains about the nurses. I ask if he’s going to start painting again. He says he might. The skin sagging off his paintbrush-thin legs makes me think he might not. But you never know. Artists can surprise you—if they’re good.  

“You see what they done to me last time I come in for a bad foot?” he says, and pulls back the covers. I look down. His big toe sticks up like a hitchhiker’s thumb, the other toes are missing.

“Gangrene,” he says. “It’s terrible for diabetics.” 

Gangrene? Gangrene? What is this the civil war? These are my thoughts but I don’t say them.  

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “This one’s getting better though.” I look at his other foot, wrapped in gauze. “Drained a full cup of puss out of it.”

We’re quiet for a minute and then he says, “I like this doctor though, he’s trying real hard. I think I’ll do a painting for him when I get out. A seascape or something.”

I nod. “You’ll have to show me before you give it to him.”

“I’ll show you,” he says matter of factly.

The nurse he’s been waiting for finally returns from lunch. I say I’ve got to get back to work and it’s not a lie. He thanks me for coming and that’s not a lie either, he is thankful, and I’m glad I came.

Outside it’s hot and the air clings to my skin like a dirty sweat. As my pants brush against my sticky legs, I think I can feel the new mole I discovered in the shower that morning. It’s not painful, but I think I can feel it, and I imagine cancer spreading under the surface of my flesh like a black gangrene, like oil spilled in the clear waters of Samoa.

I know there’s no dermatologist on the island, but I go back in to the nurse’s station and ask anyway. She shakes her head. I don’t bother asking about a pathologist.

Epilogue*

            After a rusty-scalpel biopsy (well maybe not that bad), the word from the pathologist in Hawaii was…definitely benign and somewhat hypochondriac.   

*(for the benefit of those who care)

Spear Fishing

There’s nothing there in the dark that isn’t there in the light…except for fear. But when you are 100 yards out at sea, diving in 30 foot deep water and all you have for protection is a three-pronged spear, an underwater flashlight, and your ability to swim, there’s a lot of fear. At least there is for me.

A friend and I went spear fishing several weeks ago. Apparently the swift darting reef fish fall asleep at night or at least slow down and so the optimal and perhaps only time to nab one with a spear propelled by an enormous rubber band is after dark.

So into the dark Pacific Ocean we went. The beam from the flashlight looked like a long fat light saber, cutting through the black water. Other than in the direct path of the beam’s glow it was anyone’s guess – sharks, barracuda, eels? I just couldn’t let my mind wander.  "Swim and don’t think" was my mantra. You see, I’ve got a problem with that – my imagination. For example, I was never good at baseball because every time I got up to bat, I imagined the zit-faced pitcher hurling an out-of-control, rock-hard baseball with his newly muscled pubescent arm directly at my jaw. I could see (and hear) in my mind and in vivid detail, the cracking of bone, the spitting out of bloody teeth, the screaming of women, and the little bubble of blood that would form when I exhaled through my nose. So, I usually backed out of the batter’s box as the pitch was delivered, obviously making  for a less effective swing and a short lived baseball career.   

So anyway, that’s how my mind works which should help you appreciate why swimming in tropical, shark and eel infested water’s at night could cause some imagination induced trauma for me.

Fortunately, we survived the night. My friend speared a small zebra-looking fish which we rushed up on shore (after a short detour through a shallow coral reef) before the blood attracted any silent predators. Now that I think about it, that’s what makes the water scarier than say hiking for me. If I’m hiking and run into a bear, for example, I imagine there will be some sort of roar or growl as a sort of mark-set-go to start the race between me and my hiking partner (i.e., you don’t have to outrun the bear just your friend) and at least I’ll have a chance – depending I suppose on the foot speed of my friend. But in the water, there’s no growl, roar, pounding of clawed feet over dirt and rocks, just bam, and your arm’s gone and you’re leaving a trail of blood in the  bay like some leaking oil tanker and as a consolation, if you survive and happen to become a professional surfer, they might make a movie about you.

Oh and I forgot to mention. I was nursing an ear infection that night as well and each time I dove down, chasing after some fish, the pressure felt like someone was pushing a twelve-inch needle into my ear canal. Yeah, it was awesome.

So, my spear fishing career, like my baseball and rock climbing (fifty foot fall/three nights in the hospital and one fully conscious catheter insertion) careers was short and painful, both psychologically and physically.

My new personal handbook for fishing has officially been amended to require the following:

(1) full use of visual and auditory senses (olfactory recommended but not mandatory)

(2) an environment where I have a locomotive advantage (i.e., solid ground – these feet weren’t made for flipp’n)

(3) either my father or a paid professional to deal with any fish that I should happen to catch, including but not limited to hook/spear removal; gutting; head, bone and skin removal; and packaging for transportation

I think I’m still okay with snorkeling – catching fish on film in relatively shallow waters during broad day light has not triggered any imaginary trauma, yet.  

Design for Shabby Apple (plus flexing, spitting, and other manly stuff)

Before you start reading this post, I require that you raise your arm and make a solemn pledge to read the entire thing, all the way through, right to the end. If you’re not willing to commit to that, you’re perusing without permission and will not be authorized to use anything found herein to form an opinion about me. Agreed? Okay, you may proceed.  

Okay, so as both of the loyal readers of this blog already know, I am working for two years in a quasi-governmental job in American Samoa, which is really just code for super laid back lots of free time.  

The other day when checking my email for the hundredth time, I see there’s something from this women’s online clothing store called Shabby Apple. Why am I on the email list for an online women’s clothing store? Well, my sister and sister-in-law are gaga about this Shabby Apple place and so being the awesome brother I am I once got them some birthday presents from there, or maybe it was just a gift certificate, I can’t remember, anyway, that’s how I got on the email list.

So anyway, from time to time Shabby Apple has this contest where all you have to do is design some clothes and then post it on your blog and if you’re in the top 15 everyone votes and the winner gets free money (that phrase “free money” has always seemed contradictory to me, but anyway, you know what I mean).

So, here I am, in American Samoa, checking my email and it occurs to me, I like free money and I’ve seen clothes before so why not give it a try. How hard could it be right? So I pulled a sheet of paper out from the printer, grabbed a pen and fifteen minutes and three email checks later, voila. I’m a fashion designer. Well, we’ll see. Anyway, of course I don’t have any colored pencils or pens or whatever to color my design so I had to use the super awesome free paint program on my computer. Not the best, but whatever, it’ll do.

Anyway, now stay with me here fell’as and keep reading, it gets more manly down below, I promise.  Here in Samoa the guys wear these skirt things called ie faitaga and I’ll admit, I’ve got one and I like wearing it. This is manly stuff, trust me. It’s like a South Pacific kilt – rugby players wear them, football players wear them, guys who live in a place call Massacre Bay wear them. Trust me, manly.

So anyway, I’m thinking, maybe the ladies would like to wear these as well. It’s basically a wrap around skirt with pockets, and there’s this belt kind of thing that threads through to keep it up. Pretty simple, pretty easy, pretty nice. No pleats so they have a flattening effect as well although with my ripped manly six-pack abs that’s not really an issue for me. On my design I tapered it so it will be a little more figure flattering for the ladies (the one I wear kind of makes me look stocky – or maybe that’s just my rock hard muscular legs, hard to know really). I also threw a strip around the bottom with a traditional Maori pattern. Could do floral pattern instead. Anyway, the top, which I understand is called a blouse, although I’m really too manly to have every had a conversion that actually required me to use the term “blouse,” has kind of a gathered fabric thing that looks pretty nice – I’m sure less manly men would know the proper fashion term for that, but whatever, I was probably busy lifting something really heavy when everyone else was talking about that.

Bright colors – I chose blue and yellow but it should be pretty easy to mix that up – red, orange, whatever as long as it has a bright tropical feel. Maybe even a floral print, although I'm kind of O.D'd on that down here right now (and it was too hard to draw). Another idea is grey or navy with pinstripes for the skirt if you really wanted to dress it up, but then you kind of lose the tropical feel. Now that I think of it, maybe the pinstripes with a white top. Hum. Oh well, I'm done thinking about that now -- got to go back to thinking about flexing my muscles for awhile. Oh, and definitely sandals (I haven’t worn shoes, except to church, in months).

So, right, hopefully the ladies at Shabby Apple will like this. If they do, anyone who made fun of this post will have to vote for me so I can get my free money which I will not be sharing with you haters.

If you have any questions about the design, feel free to leave a comment, but I probably won’t respond because most likely I’ll be out hunting wild boar with my bare hands or buying some power tools or something.

Peace out.

P.S. I am supposed to link to Shabby Apple Dresses, so here’s the link. Go there and buy all of their super awesome modest dresses. 

They're Finally Here

The night air in the airport clung to my skin like a dirty sweat. People were everywhere mulling around me, dressed in bright clothes, beads or flowers around their necks, welcome banners custom made rolled up in their hands.  They were waiting for someone, their hero – the local kid who had made it big in the NFL coming home to a hero’s welcome – one of them, but now all moneyed up and famous, bringing with him a cohort of recruiters and coaches, all searching for the heir apparent, the next thick necked, broad shouldered, flip flop wearing diamond in the rough. 

 

But not me. I couldn’t care less about Mr. NFL whatever is name is (Troy Polamalu). On some level I suppose I’m glad that he’s done well, hasn’t forgotten his roots, but I was waiting for the arrival of my wife and kids – it had been nearly a month -- and Mr. Big Time’s big return was just making things harder for me.

For a week I had been chasing leads, trying to find the right person that could give me a special pass to get through security and into the baggage area so I could help my wife and kids with eight suitcases, seven pieces of carryon luggage, a baby, a toddler, four just past toddler age toddlers, two strollers, a car seat, and whatever else they brought with them.

The first guy I contacted about access to the luggage area no longer had the authority to grant passes. The second guy sent me to the third guy. The third guy had to talk to the fourth guy who never got back to him. The fifth guy new a woman who is related to the fifth guy, but she either forgot to call him or he was off island. I can’t remember.

So, the day of my family’s arrival came and I had no pass. I imaged my wife and children, huddled in the corner of the airport, collapsed in exhaustion, roaches and rats crawling around and over them while their luggage circled endless on the conveyor belt, too impossibly heavy and voluminous for them to even attempt gathering. 

I had one last hope. A friend from work was coming with me to the airport to help get the luggage home. He knows everyone on the island, or so it seems whenever we are in public and in a rush to get somewhere. Surely he would have some contact, some string he could pull, some favor he was owed that could get me through.

I explained the predicament. He understood.

“Come with me,” he said.

I followed as we made our way, stopping ever few feet for him to greet friends, toward the customs office.

Inside the ceiling fans did little but push the flies back down. A group of men in pale blue uniforms sat behind desks, slumped and lounging, swatting at the flies, percolating small shining beads of sweat on their brows.

“I just explain to them, okay?” my friend said with a laugh. He always laughs.

The exchange began. Why weren’t they speaking in English? Where they trying to hide something from me, or is this just how “special” deals are made, favor’s granted?

I tried to read their faces. They laughed. Is that good? Just small talk or have negotiations begun? Do they find my predicament funny, my appearance (I was wearing a lava lava). Now my friend’s eyebrows were pinching together above his nose. Not a good sign. More laughing. Hum. The guy who seems to be the leader of the blue shirts is shaking his head. More explaining from my friend. Everyone is nodding. This may just work. A miracle in the eleventh hour. More laughing and then my friend turns to me.

“They say we have to talk to the Treasurer.”

Great the old deflect and dodge technique. I’ve seen this one before. My heart sank.

“We go find him. He is here,” my friend said.

I smiled at the blue shirts and waved. They waved back. Nice but not particularly helpful.

Back in the crowd my friend informed me that he had seen the treasurer earlier that night and that he knew him -- but not very well. “But it’s okay,” he told me. “We’ll find him.”

Making our way through the crowd, my friend stopped to greet people. Was this the treasurer? They were speaking in Samoan. They said good bye. We moved on. A few more greetings, some men, some women, no Treasurer. Finally my friend turned to me and said, “I think he is maybe in the VIP lounge.”

Great I think, off to the VIP lounge we go. But, apparently, we are not VIP material. So is that it? Game over? Sorry Monson family we gave it the old college try. My friend shrugged, “We can go wait for them over there.”

We took our position at the end of a long tunnel that leads up from the baggage area. The crowd suddenly moved with a collective gasp and then cheers. My friend pointed to a TV screen and there was the football star coming down off the plane. I watch the screen intently, waiting to see an exhausted woman and six tiny children come tumbling down the stairs behind him. But they don’t come.

“Maybe you go a little closer to look for them,” my friend said.

What’s the point I wonder, but I go anyway.

Just a few feet away the customs officials were loitering, mostly watching the TV screens or talking to the people holding banners. I checked to see if they were carrying guns. Don’t see any, but even the smallest of them easily outweighed me by a few hundred pounds.

I watched them for a minute. They didn’t care, they weren’t watching, who would it hurt really if I just walked down? Then again, I would get hurt if I got tackled and deflated under the crush of 400 pounds of Samoan flesh, but things were getting desperate. I checked the TV again. Passengers were now flooding down the stairs, forming a slow moving river of bodies flowing out of the plane and into the customs and baggage area. My wife and kids could already be out. Time to act.

I checked the guards again and then walked forward briskly, looking straight ahead, trying to make it look like I was on official business. It was a technique I had used at jobs in the past to make myself appear busy. It had worked then but the stakes were higher now.

Past the first few customs officials. They didn’t even notice or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. The baggage area came into view. Almost there. Focus. Stay on target. Don’t look nervous or uncertain, just march straight in there.”

“Stop.”

Oh no.

“You can’t go in there sir.”

I turned. A Samoan stepped in front of me.

“Just for ticketed passengers.”

“My wife and kids are traveling, they have bags -- eight or ten, they need my help.”

“But you can’t.” He put a hand up to my chest.

“You don’t understand it will be physically impossible…”

Just then I saw the head blue shirt from earlier. He sees me. I give up on the I’m-on-official-business façade and shoot him the most desperate, pathetic, raised eyebrows, scrunched shoulders, palms up expression I’ve got in my bag of expressions.   

He frowns one of those poor-sucker friendly frowns and waves me through. The beefcake Samoa guard tells me to stop.

“No, look, he says it’s okay.” I point to the head blue shirt with me eyes. Beefcake has apparently heard that one before, but at my insistence turns and sees the head guy. "Okay," he says, "go on." Bless you, I think to myself, a thousand blessing to you and the large family that is waiting for you at home.

After scanning the baggage area and not seeing the wife and kids, I turn to the luggage rack. Coming toward me are bags with bright colored ribbons tied on their handles. Instantly I know they are ours, I know it the way I know my son, Daniel, will tell me he loves me “super duper” as soon as he comes through the gate, I know it the way I know my daughter Emma will say “dadeeee” and cry when I put her down to finish getting the luggage, I know it the way I know my wife will be exhausted but some how under control. And I am right on the luggage and the other things too.

A Day of Choices

Saturday was a day of choices, some considered and some spontaneous. None were of eternal import, but it was interesting (at least to me) to see how they affected my day.

Choice 1. I had two options for starting my day – (a) go to the ward and help clean or (b) go with a local hiking group to climb a mountain called “Rainmaker” (I know, awesome name huh). So…I went to the ward. I just figured I didn’t come here to go hiking, although I hope to find time for that too. 

Cleaning the bathroom, let’s just say except for an absence of graffiti it was about the same as a West Wendover truck stop. I did what I could with a spray bottle and paper towels, but what I needed was a water cannon, a large brush with metal bristles, and several gallons of undiluted Clorox bleach.

After cleaning, I was invited by some of the young men to play a pick-up game of basketball on the church’s outdoor court. We had a lot of fun. Considering I was in flip flops, I did alright. Hit a few jumpers, missed a few layups --pretty much what you would expect after not having played for a few years. Took a charging foul in the lane by a driving Samoan. The next time I just let him have the basket. 

After laundry and lunch, I went to the office to Skype with the family. They weren’t online, so I decided to head into town to get a new book from the library. Now, you wouldn’t think there would be traffic jams on an island with a speed limit of 25 mph and only one main road, but there was. Apparently, there was some sort of Olympics going on in town not to mention it being Father’s day tomorrow so everyone was out shopping. Anyway, I jettisoned the idea of the library half way into my journey and went to Carl’s Jr. for lunch. I've got to admit, I’ve never been a big Carl’s Jr. fan before, something about the cheese. But here in American Samoa it's good. I mean it’s really good. Maybe they get their cheese from a dairy farm in New Zealand instead of the Kraft wax factory, not sure. But whatever it is it makes a huge difference.

Back to the office to Skype with the family. Isn’t Skype amazing. How can something be so awesome and free? It’s like chocolate with no calories. Had a good visit with Helen and the kids. Seems like I've been gone forever. I’m glad we finally have their tickets lined up and they’ll be coming soon. After we finished Skyping, I decided to head home. Surprise! That’s my car sandwiched in behind all the others. Apparently, that nice singing that was come up through the vents while I was in my office was some sort of well attended religious meeting.

“How much longer?” I asked a guy who had stepped out of the meeting for a smoke.

“Maybe half hour.”

Okay. Back to the office. I heard laughing as I climbed the steps.

When I came back down an hour later the cars were gone. Phew.

By now it was about 4:30. Choice number 2. I could either (a) go home and eat some eggs, carrots, and bread for dinner or (b) try and find that awesome snorkeling spot I read about on other people’s blogs.

I still hadn’t made up my mind when I came to the street that I was guessing, based on cursory review of Google maps, was the turn off to the snorkeling location. What the heck, I turned down the road. This was the spontaneous decision.

After driving for a few minutes and one wrong turn I found it. Well, I say “it” – not the snorkeling location, but the trailhead that leads to the location. Here it is. Pretty nice, huh. Along the black rocks in the background you can see white plumes of water, shooting up in the air. More on that in a minute.

This is looking back on where the trail starts. There’s a convention center/resort thingy back there. Not really sure what it is, but they were getting ready for a wedding reception that evening. Pretty nice place for a reception.

After walking a short distance, the coast turned into black lava rock, carved by years of pounding waves. Here is a photo just before the waves hit.

This one is just after.

For the next quarter mile or so this is what you see. Even cooler is that in lots of places there are these holes in the rocks. The waves come rushing in, disappear under the rocks, you hear a distant, buried rushing sound and then – geyser time (of course, being an amateur photographer I didn’t get a good shot of the geysers blasting 100 feet into the air, but trust me, it was impressive). Here is the best shot I got.

(Yes I know I wrote "throught" but it's late and I'm too tired to go back into photoshop and fix it)

Basically, it is like Yellowstone national park only with a nice cool ocean breeze, no smell of sulfur, and no tourists wearing t-shirts with cartoon moose on them -- no tourists at all in fact. I was all alone. 

After the blow holes I came to a fork in the road. Hum. Go into the scary looking vegetation or take my chances with the waves along the coast?

Not feeling particularly Robert Frostian, I took the road that looked more traveled by (through the bushes) and, as it turned out, it made no difference. Both paths joined up and took me to the same place. Sorry Señor Frost, but it’s true.

Getting closer.

Last thing you see before you arrive at the snorkeling spot are these two “pill boxes.” 

These were built during World War II so soldiers could sit inside and defend the harbor from Japanese warships. You can see the hole in the nearest one for the guns. Now, for a war that ended in a nuclear blast, this means of defense seems to me a little, I don’t know – medieval. But, apparently it had a deterrent effect because the Japanese never attacked American Samoa. It was either that or the Japanese just couldn’t be bothered. Hum, guess we’ll never know.

After the pill boxes, I arrived.

Okay, why is this a primo snorkeling spot? First, if you look out in the distance you can see the waves breaking. Big waves. The kind that shoot 100 feet in the air when they go through blow holes.  But, because they break out so far, you have lots and lots of calm water for snorkeling. Second, crystal clear water.  Third, deep but not too deep. Fourth, what was the fourth thing? Oh yeah, its jam packed swarming full of brightly colored tropical fish. I knew there was something else.

Of course, the drawback to my spontaneous decision to come on this adventure was that I was completely unprepared – no snorkel, fins, mask - not even bathing suit. And not feeling spontaneous enough to go in naked, I called it a day and headed back.

   

When I got back to the trailhead, I happened on these guys. Yes, they are holding on to rope so that the waves don’t crash them into the obsidian rocks or wash them out to sea.

Haircut

Last Saturday I decided it was time for a haircut. The shaggy look in the heat wasn't working. So, after buying a few more cleaning supplies, I went looking for a barber’s shop. After driving for a few minutes I found one, a small cinderblock building. I parked and stepped inside. My first concern was price. I didn't want to get all the way to the end and then get a $40 bill. Besides, I only had about $15 cash and this didn't look like a credit card kind of shop.

Inside, two old men were sitting, one by the barber’s chair, the other on a bench upholstered in red vinyl. They both raised their eyebrows when I stepped in. I tried closing the door behind me, but it wouldn’t catch. The man on the bench grunted, which I understood meant don’t worry about it. I didn’t.

“How much?” I asked.

The men looked at each other.

“Price?” I tried.

Finally I saw a white board on the wall with prices. Kids were $8. Adults, where were the adult prices.

“Ten dall’a,” the guy on the bench said.

Then I saw it. Adult cuts -- $10. I had ten dollars. The barber motioned me over to the chair. The sheet went on and tucked in around my neck like normal – good sign. He ran a comb through my hair. Was he getting it ready to cut or trying to figure out why it wasn’t black and curly? I wasn’t sure.

The barber grunted. It was deep and throaty and may have been a Samoan word. I couldn’t be sure.

“Um, business man,” I said. It was a term of art I had heard other barbers use to describe the sort of haircut I was after. I hoped he would recognize it. No luck.

He shook his head. “Short,” I said.

“Sho,” he said.

I tried to show him with my fingers. He didn’t seem interested. Spinning my chair, he pointed a comb at the posters on the wall displaying hundreds of young men in profile, each sporting a different haircut. Good. I menu. I can order up what I want. Let’s see, where are the photos of the business men, the elders, the white people. None, none, none. All black. Tight stiff curls carved with names, images of athletes, lines, and shapes.

“Huh?” the barber grunted pointing at the wall again.

“No, not exactly, I don’t see…”

Apparently out of patience, the barber turned the chair so I wasn’t facing the mirror, snatched his electric clippers, and went to work.

He came at my hair from interesting angles, not using his free hand or a comb to pull the hair away from my head. He was carving more than cutting. My only hope lay in the fact that very little hair was falling, whatever the damage was at least it wasn’t deep. But then again, for $10 I didn’t want to be shaggy again in a week.

After two or three minutes, he pulled out a straight razor, cleaned up my neck, slapped on some aftershave stuff and spun me around. Not as much damage as I had expected, but not much improvement either.

He spun me around again and pulled off the sheet. Wait! Ten dollars for two minutes and a fraction of an inch of hair, I don’t think so. “Shorter,” I said. I’m a black belt in charades; I’ll get my point across. I lifted my hair with one hand and showed him the length. I made scissors with my other hand and demonstrated just to make sure he got the point.

Another grunt and the sheet when back on. He didn’t bother to tuck it in around the collar this time. More carving. More locks of hair gathering around me. Another two minutes, a spin in the chair, a quick look in the mirror. Fine. I decided to cut my losses (bad figure of speech I realize given the situation).

I handed over the ten bucks and headed out to my car for a better look. Let’s just say, if I were relying on my looks for success in life, I would have gone in and demanded my money back. But since my looks are, if not a liability, at least not an asset, I decided to live with it. At least the hair was off my neck. I ran my fingers through my hair to shake out some of the follicle shrapnel and drove home to do some more cleaning.