A sort of life

Painkiller found in human saliva

RICHMOND, Va. — I need a haircut. I haven’t had one since August.

That might not be so long for some people, but for me, my hair grows too fast for this to be acceptable. I should — if I were back in my ultra suave mood — be clipped every three weeks or so. Any longer and I start looking like I got a mop on my head. This causes me to put the ball cap on, which in turn causes the hat hair.

And I haven’t shaved in a couple days either. Just give me a tie-dye shirt and some sweatpants and I could be a big Lebowski. Like a drunken uncle. Put me in one half of a duplex with my mother and there you have it. I’ve officially hit rock bottom.

But we’re a ways off yet.

And so maybe Tomorrow I’ll go find myself a pretty young lady to give me a head rub and a clip. Though I’m awful picky about that sort of thing. I haven’t had a good cut since 2003.

Perth, Australia was the only place in the world I’ve been lucky enough to find someone that does a good job. And between you and me, she ran a salon for women. I was one of two or three male customers.

I found her through a friend of mine. She was a friend of his extended family — all ex-pats from Poland that chose to settle in the outback.

She really knew how to do a cut. It was about the sculpting and the way the body flowed through the fingers. She was so good I would avoid washing my hair for a couple days so that I could preserve her work. I mean, no matter how hard I tried, I could not replicate what her nimble fingers did to my hair. I had the same product, used the same motions. It didn’t matter. But she was so good that it really didn’t matter what I did. Unless, of course, I waited too long between visits.

And it only cost me $20 Australian, which was just over $10 in my native currency. Smashing!

But alas. I am gone and I’m going to be scalped. I suppose — to soothe myself, my exposed and vulnerable self — I’ll always carry those fond memories. Cherish those fond memories.

“Painkiller found in human saliva” is from Volume One: Frank’s Wild Years (1983–2009). Written between 2003 and 2009, Volume One was this author’s attempt to find meaning from life as a young twenty-something. While this endeavor would ultimately fail, what remains is a comical tale of loneliness and debauchery.

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion

A congested Jenny De Soto naps with a Kleenex stuck in her nose in Vienna, Va. on December 5, 2004.