The Barbershop and Leeann Tweeden

My Dad's been fighting a haircut for months. His balding hair is getting long and straggley in the back and still he resists a trip to the barber. "You cut it," he requests. Which I've done in the past I'm ashamed to admit. Not that it's horrendous, but I just ain't no hairstylist.

This weekend was the end of the road for his graying elf-locks. On the way to a birthday party I pulled up in front of a turquoise blue shop. "Chello!" I commanded in my bossiest voice. (Note: not that I have one, I must have conjured it from the ether...)We walked into the shop which was populated by three men casually lounging in barber chairs. It's a little dingy, sagging floors, pictures of thong-clad girls pasted on the walls. Red Bull and Gatorade's litter the counter. It looks just like a scene from the Movies - Barbershop 1 - 5.

"We'd like a cut and clean up for my father" I tell the guy clearing a chair for us. Sure he replies, indicating that Dad be seated. But Dad isn't paying attention. He's rifling through the magazines for something to read. His eyes light up and he clutches one as he's seated. It's a Playboy. A freaking Playboy. With Leeann Tweeden on the cover. Who the hell is Leeann Tweeden and why is my Dad checking out her tatas?

Julio expertly trims and buzzes Dad's coif with masculine ritual. Say what you will about women and their nails, men are just as habitual. And Dad's greatly enjoying this ritual. He graciously thanks Julio for an excellent job. I handsomely tip Julio who smiles like a gentleman but still checks out my booty.

Dad is all smiles as he checks out his 'do. "We'll come again," he says. I'd like to think the lure is the pampering, not Leeann...

The Libra Way

The month of October has been a balancing act. Career, relationships, energy, pace. Some aspects illuminating, some exciting, some disappointing. This quote about patience adroitly sums it up: Patience is what you do when you wait for something to happen.

October was always the month devoted to my mother. Mostly because Mom was such a high maintenance woman. I've been called that at points in my life (really? because I won't drink a Zinfandel with seafood?) But my mother was the maintenance queen. She was a Libra and most of October was spent figuring ways to celebrate her birthday.

This year she would have turned 70. A fact I tended to in the most secret spaces of my heart, chosing to be with my father for the event. Strange thing happened. He didn't remember. Just like a man! At least he didn't appear to. We had dinners with family. Visited a suddenly sick aunt in the hospital. Ate the delish chicken curry and coconut rice my cousin Arun made. The bomb baby, the bomb. Look for a cookoff very soon...

Dad appeared content to play with the dogs, play passenger for long drives with me, shop on rainy days. Then my aunt called from India. This is my mother's big sister, the one I call Peddama - Big Mother. She is more like my mother than anyone else alive (with the exception of her little sister whom I call Chinnie, little mother) and gets all due to her for that title. She tells us 'I'm giving away saris to the poor villagers in your mother's name.' My father is touched and says - that's right, it's Mom's birthday. That's all.

Odd thing happened to my father after Mom's death. He doesn't remember much. He doesn't remember what happened last week, or what will occur next week. He just knows what's happening right now. I'm thinking this is a blessing. It would be criminal for the man to remember 50 years of marriage with searing clarity. Time has been kinder to him. Thankfully he lives in nothing but the moment. And each moment is just swell. Time with his grandkids. Luncheons with his siblings. Excursions with his son and daughter-in-law. Phone calls - albeit short with me. Not that I don't like to talk on the phone. Lord knows that's not the case. But Dad has never been what you would call chatty. Sometimes he'll get tired of a conversation and just hang up. Kid you not. And I find it kinda charming. A father who never has much to say giving life to a daughter who never has trouble with self expression.

A friend of mine hosted a Jewish funeral this summer. Interesting enough that a gentile sit shiva. Even more intriguing was what the Rabbi told him:

If you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you piss on the present.

My father lives entirely in the moment. And with touching courage. Something I fervently hope I am not forced to learn from either death or despair.