Shave and a Haircut, Nine Bucks!

I had to wait in line behind three bald guys to get my hair cut this morning. 

That’s annoying!

I realize that the army expects haircuts to be regulation, but when you have NO hair on the sides or back of your head, and a two square inch tuft of ¼ inch flattop hidden underneath your cap, what’s the point?! Those of us who have hair, and have long hair, NEED to have it cut.  We actually give the barber something to do other than wave a pair of clippers over our heads like a magic wand and ask, “How that?”

When I walked in the door and saw four guys waiting ahead of me, I turned around and left.  I drove to 7-11 and bought a cup of coffee.  It was the extra-large cup, too.  I knew that I had time to kill.  

My barber must be raking in the cash. From bald guys.  He has a one chair shop a four blocks south of the main entrance to Fort Leavenworth, so it’s not unusual to have to wait to get a haircut.  He is the best barber in town, and one of only a handful who know how to use a straight razor to shave a neck.  That’s the best part of the cut.  Since he doesn’t take reservations, I wasn’t surprised to see four guys ahead of me in line when I arrived at 7:30 this morning.  Frank told me that there were five guys in line when he arrived at 6:40 to open.  He started right away.  How do you get through nine haircuts in under an hour?  Well, when most of them are bald to begin with, it’s pretty easy!  And at $9 a pop, that’s $81 an hour!    

I’m in the wrong business. 
  
Even I can cut a bald dude’s hair. 

Honoring a Fallen Soldier

SGT Aaron Smith, US Army, a native of Manhattan, Kansas, died on October 2, 2009, in Wardak province, Afghanistan, as a result of injuries sustained when enemy forces attacked his unit using small arms fire. SGT Smith was assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 87th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry), at Fort Drum, N.Y. He was laid to rest at the Fort Leavenworth post cemetery on Friday, October 16, 2009.

I had the honor of standing at the curb on Grant Avenue, the main post road, along with an estimated 2,000 soldiers and civilians, when Sgt. Smith’s funeral procession arrived on post. Many of us were holding American flags. I was standing with my family. My sons and I wore our scout uniforms, which felt at once out-of-place and perfectly suited for the occasion, as we were surrounded by soldiers in uniform.  We joined in to salute SGT Smith as his funeral procession rolled past.  It was an opportunity to teach my children how to honor a fallen soldier. It was an opportunity to tell Sgt. Smith’s parents “Thank you.” Nothing will replace their son, but they deserved our support. An e-mail from the officer assigned to the family for the funeral stated that Sgt. Smith’s parents were overwhelmed by the support that they have received.

Since we live a short drive from Topeka, Kansas, and the Westboro Baptist Church, the funeral was escorted by the Patriot Guard, an amazing group of volunteers who use their motorcycles and American Flags to create a shield between the hateful sights and sounds of WBC protests and the families mourning for their fallen children. There had to be at least 100 motorcycles in the funeral procession, probably more.  I am grateful for their creativity and generosity in support for our service men and women who lose their lives in battle. 

If you can, say a prayer for Sgt. Smith and his parents.

An Arby's Archives Flashback and Follow-up

In March of 2008, the Boss spent two weeks at Fort Lee in Virginia in preparation for her deployment to Iraq. I wrote the following entry for Arby’s Archives:

A Note on the Refrigerator

Dear Kids:

Your mother has been gone for five days and she won’t return home for another week. To ensure our safe arrival at the end of next week as an intact family unit, I think it’s time to review the past week and see what we want to change.

The top item on my list is really a question. Who put bologna in my shoes? I must say it’s an odd, squishy feeling when you put your stocking clad foot into a shoe, only to feel it slide across a greasy slice of processed meat by-product. You left a grease stain inside of my new sneakers. I think I know who did it, but I would appreciate an admission of guilt.

Please stop sword fighting with your dinner utensils. I know that spoons and forks make great clanking sounds as you young swashbucklers slice the air over the dinner table. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful that you aren’t using dinner knives, but the hole left in Major Havoc’s finger when it came in contact with General Mayhem’s fork is an indication that this type of play is just not a great idea. I guess I will have to rejoin you at the dinner table instead of slipping off into the living room to escape in front of the TV for a few minutes.

That reminds me that shrieking and howling at the slightest injury is not good for my nerves. Every day, run-of-the-mill owee’s and boo-boo’s do not require your production of sounds that make the neighbors run for their basements with weather radios. Most of these minor bumps can be healed with a quick kiss, but for the record, there are certain areas of the body that will not be kissed, no matter how badly you hurt. When you come to me and point to your butt and say, “I hurt myself,” and I tell you that I will not kiss your owee, the next words out of your mouth should not be a matter-of-fact “Yes, you will.” No, I won’t. Get an ice pack. You know where they are. You can petition your mother for a ruling on this issue when she returns, but I am fairly certain that she won’t kiss your ass, either.

I would really like to know who put the slice of bologna in my shoe.

It would be nice if a simple request like, “Hey General, would you run downstairs and get the Major’s snuggle bear?” was fulfilled without turning it into a grand production. I know the Major laughed hysterically when you pretended not to have found it, and then pretended to pull it out of your butt, but you don’t have the common sense not to tell your mother that story, or show her the trick when she gets home, and it only serves to get me in trouble as she begins to question exactly what it is I am teaching you when she is not at home. Forgive me if I’m being anal here, but you are teaching your brother some bad habits. I did not teach you that trick! If you want to entertain your younger brother, just say the word “underwear” and you’ll have him splitting his sides with laughter.

If the sky outside of our house is still dark when you get out of bed, go back to bed! Go potty if you have to. Get a drink of water if you must. Then go back to bed! Do not crawl into dad’s room. Do not crawl into dad’s bed. Do not stick your finger in his eye, Captain Chaos, and pry the lid open, squealing, “Hi, daddy!” Daddy does not share your enthusiasm for life at 5:30 in the morning. If you want to be around to see your mommy at the end of next week, GO BACK TO BED!

We’ll get along fine if we just adopt these few changes. Mommy will come, we’ll all have a good laugh, and life will return to normal. We all want that. Let’s have a good week.

And please, no more bologna in my shoes!

Love,

Daddy

I discovered this post while organizing my old blog entries. I am happy to report that the General and the Major are no longer sword fighting with their dinner utensils. The Major and the Captain frequently lock forks in culinary combat, but the oldest generally stays out of the fray.

The Major will still come to me crying because of some life-threatening injury, such as the Captain slapping him on the back or the dog looking at him from across the room, but he rarely makes it to my side to show the injury of the moment because of the following exchange that takes place as he is approaching:

Major: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Dad: (Calls out) Are you bleeding? If you’re not bleeding then you’re not really hurt.

Major: (Sniff) Okaaaaaaaaay.

The Captain has learned to silently climb into bed, hog my pillow, and go back to sleep. She saves the mad chatting until the alarm goes off. For some strange reason the fact that I must move a few inches closer to the center of the bed causes the Boss great consternation. The Ref blows her whistle and announces, “Encroachment! Five yard penalty!” I’ve taken to giving to young lass a few moments to warm-up and then I return her to her bed for the rest of the night.

And none of them ‘fessed-up about who put the bologna in my shoe!