Worst haircut I’ve ever had?
It was in high school and my dad thought that if he could shave his dogs, how hard would it be to give me a haircut? Who was the bigger fool? Him for thinking he could give me a haircut? Or me? For letting him? I wonder if someday when I have a kid, if I’ll have some half baked idea to fuck something up on or in his head, then I’ll turn around and scream at my wife, “For God’s sake I’m turning into my father!” Then I’d call him and ask him for another haircut. Sometimes I admire my father, that crazy ass son of a bitch. He somehow gets away with a lot of shit, does what he wants, when he wants. Other times I loathe him for embarrassing me, mostly those were in my days of lost youth. I wonder if there are any fathers like mine out there. I sometimes fantasize that Ethan’s father is just a white hairier version of mine. There must be some reason we turned out so similar. Or perhaps it was our overbearing mothers or our sisters who constantly administered doses of humiliation. Anyway, my father has been a lot of things, he’s kind of like Forrest Gump in this way, he’s been a bartender, a businessman, a Purebred Rottweiler breeder, he raises and races pidgeons, a carpenter, a gambler, a restaurateur, a schemer, a car collector, a trinkets collector, a communist (until he moved to the states), oh and a barber, a motorcyclist, and probably a hundred other things i can’t remember right now. He makes the best Clam Chowder from his days working as a cook in the Marina. Gives the worst haircuts, his advice is 50/50. He’s one of the few people I know who really doesn’t give a fuck about what you think about him, but he carries himself really well. He’s been wearing a lot of camouflage themed clothing lately, I’m not sure whether this is something I should be worried about or not. In any case that’s a short version of my pops. He can be a real bastard sometimes, but I suppose we can all have days like that. If you are ever in WIllits, drop by and say hello. He’s usually at the restaurant reading a paper or scheming on his little notepad. Tell him you know his boy, Old Ed down in San Francisco, he’ll know who you’re talking about.
