September 14 – Day 8: Massaging the Scalp, the Feet, and the Funny Bone

(That's a lousy title, but sue me; I'm tired.)

After the marathon posts of the last few days, I think this one will be shorter than has been the norm.

I saw Friday as a sort of maintenance day. Not that I’d done anything but be self-indulgent so far, but there were a few things I needed to take care of. The first was a haircut. Mother Night is a period piece (set mainly in the 40s and early 60s), so I need an appropriate haircut. I thought of getting one before I left (from the crazy woman who normally cuts my hair; she’s a good barber, but chatty as hell and kind of scattered), but I know from experience that it takes about two weeks after I get a haircut before it grows enough to look right, and that will take us to the week before we open. (As I write that, I think “Damn; we’re getting close!”) I’ll need to get another haircut in about a month, but this was step one.

I’m always leery when going to a new barber. You never know what you’re going to get, and when I’m judging a new place, its Yelp photos are invariably full of guys with weird-ass styles. (I’m firmly convinced that the 2000s and 2010s—the aughts and teens—are going to be remembered for stupid hair, as much as the 70s and 80s are.) I know what I want, and a good barber can deliver, but once it’s cut, there’s not a lot they can do.

But, as I implied, I looked on Yelp and found a place—B&H Barber Shop—that wasn’t too far away and had great ratings. The tipping point was how cheap it was. I don’t mind paying for a good cut, but I don’t want to pay too much. (Like an idiot, back in the early 70s, I stopped going to my usual barber and started going to a “stylist” named Sisu—she was Swedish and cute, and I was a teenager. She charged $20 then [I just did an inflation check and see that that’s the modern equivalent of $108], and did the best she could with what she had to work with. As I say, it was the 70s, and having a stupid haircut was a requirement.) B&H advertised a $17 haircut, and between that, the location, and the ratings, I was sold.

I walked down and as I got closer, I saw sort of a disco-ball version of a barber pole outside the shop that gave me hesitation, but the shop itself was modern and squeaky-clean, so in I went. Even though I had an appointment, I had to wait. I was in no hurry, and everyone seemed really friendly. After about 15 minutes, Alex, the guy I had my appointment with, called me over, we shook hands, I sat in the chair, and we did the usual “What are you thinking of?” I showed him my theatrical headshot (I take lousy pictures, but this is the rare exception) and said “That.” He put the barber paper around my neck, the shawl/apron/whatever you call it over me, and did something no barber has ever done for me. After wetting down my hair, he lifted up a section of the front of my hair with two fingers, selected what he thought was the right length, and indicated to me, “Is that about right?” Every other barber I’ve ever been to picks up the scissors or the clippers and plunges in. That impressed me, and the rest of the cut was just as good. He kept checking in with me to make sure that what he was about to do was what I wanted, and his instinct was already right.

 The rarest of the rare; a decent photo of me

Male readers of a certain age may remember that the highlight of any haircut was the end, when the barber would finish things off with a dollop of heated shaving cream, then would scrape the back of the customer’s neck clean with a straight razor. I haven’t had that done in, well, decades, but not only did Alex do that, finished me off with a hot towel on my face. It was, like, a perfect haircut, and paid happily before going to my second errand: buying a new phone.

My old phone is/was fine for the most part, but is three years old, and running really slowly. I was told that getting a new battery would help, but it actually made things even slower. (Of course, having almost filled it up probably didn’t help either.) I’d planned on getting one a couple of weeks ago, but the woman at the AT&T Store (who was obviously not working on commission) told me I should wait until after the new models were announced, since the price would drop about $150. Fortunately, there was a store with a good rating only a couple of blocks away, so I went there and was able to order an iPhone 8 with 256 gigs of memory, a capacity even I should have trouble filling (I’ll do my darnedest, though.)

I say “order,” rather than buy, because even though they were happy to sell me a phone, they didn’t have it in stock; it “had to be delivered.” That would normally be fine, except I can’t get mail here. I was going to rent a mail box nearby, but realized I really don’t have much need for it yet; I’m not expecting any mail. I arranged to have it sent to the store, and they were going to notify me when it arrived.

Following that, I was off to get a massage. I haven’t been any under any stress (far from it, this week), but given all the walking I’ve been doing, my feet and calves were pretty sore. My appointment wasn’t for about two hours, but it seemed silly to walk all the way home only to just sit for fifteen minutes before taking off again, and since I hadn’t had breakfast yet, at Pidge’s suggestion, I decided to have lunch. As I was walking up 1^st Avenue, I kept seeing possible places, but all of them had pretty mediocre ratings, and with so many good places in town, I don’t have time for lousy food.

I ended up on 23^rd, and still hadn’t chosen a place, but saw a café across the street from the massage parlor (well, that sounds sleazy. It’s not a parlor; it’s a national chain with a decent reputation) that seemed like a likely candidate. I crossed the street and went in, and even though it was only about 2:15, the staff inside was already packing everything up. One guy was taking all the bagels off the shelf; someone else was draining the coffee urn; the iced tea and juice dispensers were empty. I figured they closed after lunch, but they were still open and I was able to order a sandwich and chips. Part of the attraction for me was that there was a sort of a covered patio that allowed me to people-watch on 23^rd. I got my sandwich and sat and ate a pretty good turkey sandwich (even if it did have some structural-integrity issues).

I was there for about 45 minutes, and two odd things were that people kept going into the place and apparently ordering, because they came out with food (so why were they packing everything up?), and it seems like the patio is a gathering place for people who live nearby to just hang out and gossip. It wasn’t unpleasant; it just seemed like buying anything from the café was the last thing any of these people were going to do.

After I finished, I killed a little time on my phone, then crossed the street to the massage establishment. I had expected to have to wait for my appointment, but the masseuse asked me if, since I was there and she didn’t have anything going, I wanted to start early. I said sure, and went in. Suffice it to say, it was a very good massage. I think I fell asleep at least once or twice, but I don’t know if that’s a sign of a good massage or a bad one. Regardless, I was satisfied and relaxed (and my feet and calves really haven’t hurt since), and walked home in a kind of an altered state.

When I did get home, I needed to shower to wash off the massage oil (and the inevitable layer of sweat that’s become second-nature with this humidity that won’t break). After that, it was catching up on the blog some and waiting until it was time to leave for the Vineyard Theatre on 15^th to see Eddie Izzard workshop his new show. The last time I saw him, I was disappointed, because it turned out to be him pretty much showing home movies as he plugged his autobiography. This show was more of what I expected, even if it got off to a bad start.

The house was pretty full, and surprisingly to me, pretty old. I realize he’s no spring chicken, but I didn’t figure his audience was geezers. Anyway, he came out and saw some piece of something on the stage. He tried to kick it into the wings, and the guy two people over from me, who apparently thought he was there for a conversation with Eddie rather than to listen to him, asked “Do you play for Arsenal?” Izzard tried to handle him gracefully, but it was a shitty way for him to begin a set.

Fortunately, he recovered, but the rest of the evening was kind of off. There were a couple of times when he solicited feedback from the audience, but (excepting for muttering/narrating), the couple next to me kept quiet.

The set itself was typically Izzardian, juxtaposing historical information and Trump-bashing with geeky references (a long section on Lord of the Rings that meant nothing to me) and absurdities. I’d read that, at some of the early shows, he used a crib sheet on the floor to keep track of what he wanted to cover, but there was none in evidence on this night. At the end, there was a half-expectation of an encore of some kind, but after 80 minutes, he was done. (Sorry for the vagueness of this, but I’m writing it on Wednesday night.)

Leaving the theatre, I discovered it was pleasantly warm and not too humid, so on walking home, I stopped to do a bit of grocery shopping (nothing important; peanut butter, peaches, bread, bagels; those sorts of things) and then for some ice cream, which made for quite a challenge, trying to deal with a full grocery bag in one hand, and an ice cream cone with the other. I persevered, though. (Back in the mid 80s, I was on a train to Indiana [don't ask] and sat next to a woman who was writing a letter to someone. I got nebby and glanced over to see what she was writing. She was complaining about the roughness of the railroad, but "I persevere," the letters of the latter word being written in a shaky, up-and-down way as an illustration of her unwillingness to be defeated. From that day to this, I have never used the word "persevere" without thinking of her. I dedicate today's blog to whoever she was, wherever she is.)