Why can’t a man find a barber?

I’ve had my hair cut in countless cities and towns in North America and Mexico. Why is it that if you want a basic haircut, you have to travel to a small town to get one? Has the availability of basic barber skills in the city gone the way of the Tin Goose, never to be seen again except during rare moments of civic pride and air shows?

What’s with the “beauty parlor” that wants to wash, wax, trim, blow dry and mousse? Do I look like I need a wash? Is my face dirty? My hair matted?

Well, okay, perhaps after a long day in the saddle I look to be a bit on the scummy side, but I clean up pretty good, and besides, I never go for a haircut looking like that anyway. I consider these “beauty parlor barbers” to be similar to the barber-surgeons of old, and thus must resort to blow-and-go quackery to hide ignorance of basic hair cutting skills.

What is needed is the reintroduction of the “Worshipful Company of Barbers”, as founded in 1308 to oversee the trade in London. The Master would make the rounds and chastise those he found disgracing it. He also had the power to prevent imposters from practicing the profession. Another 14th century Barbers Guild could imprison barbers for their transgressions against the profession.

All that sounds fair to me.

My friend’s surgery was yesterday.

He was in pre-op by 10, and under the knife at 11:30. We were offered the opportunity to watch the entire proceeding, but all of us turned it down. I think had it been for something less — brain surgery? open heart? – we might have agreed. Or not. Who the hell watches someone they care about go under the knife for a serious medical condition? And who wants to listen to the bantering of the residents as they dissect technique?

Apparently, some do.

We preferred the anonymity of the waiting room where we could come and go as we pleased, gorge ourselves on cafeteria food, and get mild cases of the runs four hours later.

We were pretty much wiped out by the time it was announced that Ted was in recovery. He spent several hours there getting pain meds straightened out by the anesthesiology team before being released to the relative comfort of a room, and even by then, the pain med routine continued to plague. Finally, some 12 hours post-surgery and with the med routine finally worked out, he was doing better.

Late in the evening a day later, normal color has returned and he’s wisecracking like the old days.

Pain meds do wonders for one’s outlook on life.