Call it karma.  Call it kismet.  Call it the will of God.  Call it whatever you wish, but let it be known that I think I’ve developed the uncanny ability to locate every hairstylist in town with short arms.  It’s an odd talent, and not something I was expecting.

One of my goals in life has always been to never comb my hair.  It’s not high on my list, but it’s on the list, all the same.  If it seems unreasonable, or even crazy to you, you should just stop for a minute and think about it.  Wouldn’t you, too, like to never have to comb your hair again?  The time savings alone would make it worthwhile.  I have a feeling that once you think about it, you’ll be adding it to your own life goal list.  If you keep such a list, that is.

Anyway, one of the ways to avoid combing your hair is to receive regular haircuts.  Here’s the rule: If it looks unruly, walk into the nearest Super Duper Cuts and say “A number 2 on the sides.  Sort of sticking up on top.” That should do the trick.  There are other methods, such as hats and balding, but I won’t discuss them at the moment, except to say that I’m trying them all with varied success.  Each method has it’s pros and cons.

Carefree hair is really that simple.  After that, all that’s required is water and a quick brush of the fingers to set it right.  Maybe a little dab of gel, when you’re feeling fancy.  Five seconds tops, I promise you. 

So what’s this have to do with fate and short-armed hairstylists, you ask?  I’m not quite sure, except that I’ve begun noticing that Super Duper Cuts’ stylists have a tendency to have short arms, and that as I sit there getting my cheap, life-goal reaching haircut, their bellies always seem to be bumping into me and pushing me around.  I can’t say I like it.  My own belly isn’t the flattest in the world, but at least I try to keep it off of people when I’m working. 

But then, maybe it’s just me.  Maybe my arms are longer then most people’s, and it’s easier for me.  Or maybe it’s just my last couple years of self-imposed isolation that has me noticing these bellies bumping up against my personal space.  Maybe I realize the sadness in the fact that the only womanly touch I receive these days doesn’t spin my head, but my chair.  Maybe bellies have always knocked me around and I just didn’t notice.  Maybe hair stylists have always had short arms, and I just didn’t care.  Maybe I’m the same old Keith I’ve always been.  Maybe there’s nothing uncanny going on around here at all.

But I do have short hair this morning.  I know that much.

“Dad, teachers puff up when they’re mad or serious.  Didn’t you know that?  Their voice gets deeper and booms and they straighten up really tall.”

[This lesson comes along with a nice illustration of a teacher “booming” the folly of pouting.  I will add the picture later.]

A note attached to my van states that they will tow away my vehicle if it is not moved before Monday at 2:00 p.m.  Apparently my lease also requires that I drive around on occasion.  Monday’s to-do list continues to grow.

I have emails to return, but haven’t had time.  Silence must not be confused with ignoring.

In fifteen minutes I head to the roller rink for three hours of balancing practice.  If it wasn’t for the falling, I’d say that human feet would be better with wheels.  I can still skate backwards but can no longer leap like a disco-version Baryshnikov.  Okay, I never could.  But once I could fall down, laugh, and pop back up all without missing a beat.  Now, the consequences of a fall must be monitored as closely as the core temperature of a nuclear reactor.

Goodwill is a good place for kids books, although the clerks name tags are not always printed the clearest.  For a second grader, a capital “I” should have crosses along the top and bottom.  Without them, an “I” will always look like an “L”, and with that mysterious silent “E” on the end of things, an eight year old, attempting his best to read and sound out the world and be polite will calmly thank the clerk by saying:

“Thank you Jackal”

when he really means: Thank you Jackie.

The most important thing about holding hostages is to not turn your back on them.  I wish I’d remembered this.

Imaginary Keith not only gave me the slip, but somehow snuck the car keys, then drove to Best Buy and bought a TiVo.  He is smiling and excited and seems to be holding no grudge about his previous predicament.

I am finding it hard to keep a stern face.

The beautiful thing with imaginary friends is that when they disappear for awhile, no one asks questions.  No one wonders where they’ve gone or when they’ll be back.  When an imaginary friend goes missing, it never becomes a federal case.

That’s the difference between imaginary friends and family.  With family, everything is a federal case.  There are no little problems.  No little disagreements, no little differences, no little solutions.  In a family, headaches hang on coat hooks just like hats, and everyone walking by is expected to reach out and grab one.  No one walks out the door without one.

Hey!  Hold on!  You forgot this!

What was I thinking?  Thanks.  Oh wait, I already have one.

That’s okay.  Have another.

Aspirin, it’s sometimes forgotten, was invented because of family. 

My own imaginary friend, Imaginary Keith, has been presiding over a Supreme Family case involving three goose eggs in an incubator.  Two African geese eggs, to be exact.  The proceedings seem to have gone on forever over the custody of the soon-to-hatch goslings, and until a decision is made, emotions in the courtroom run high.  It is almost positive that repurcussions from the decision will be felt for years, and Imaginary Keith’s head throbs from the hours and hours of arguments presented to him.  Every headache hat in the place has been taken off of its hook and pulled down tight onto his head. 

All eyes are on him as everyone anxiously awaits the exact moment his resolve will break.  Bets have been hedged.  Caution thrown to the wind.  Anything that will snap the old man.

Facts of the case (as Imaginary Keith understands them):

1. A certain person (Grammy) receives three unwanted African goose eggs from a friend.
2. Grammy then places the eggs in incubator, even though it is known she doesn’t want any geese.
3. Grammy begins the enticement of animal-lover grandson with stories of cute baby goslings.
4. Overly excited son pushes case quickly through wishy-washy Mother courts
5. Same son passionately argues goose egg case with Imaginary Keith
6. Imaginary Keith retreats to chambers in search of aspirin.
7. Imaginary Keith returns to court to deliver eloquent speech on family problems
8. Court is adjourned.  Further arguments are promised every 20 to 30 minutes until eggs hatch.  Fifteen minute spacing once hatched.

A reading from this morning’s goose egg hearing transcript reads:

Son: Dad, no one wants the geese except me.  African geese are very mean and lonely.  That’s why you have to have more then one.

Imaginary Keith: Why would you want three mean geese wandering around the farm?

Son: They wouldn’t be mean to me because I’d raise them.

Imaginary Keith: Here’s the deal.  Why do three goose eggs have to become my problem?
Imaginary Keith: Why would Grammy hatch three eggs that she doesn’t want?
Imaginary Keith: Why do I have to have the same discussion day after day about the same three eggs?

Son: Dad!  She saved them.  They’re eggs from a mom AND dad goose with babies already inside!  You can’t just throw eggs like that away.  You can’t just kill baby geese.

Imaginary Keith (losing ground): well, no, I suppose . . .

Son: Throwing those eggs away would be like standing around with a spear killing puppies.

Imaginary Keith: What?!

Son: You wouldn’t do that, would you?

Imaginary Keith: What?!

Son:  I didn’t think so.

Imaginary Keith: I really don’t think . . .

Son:  Approach the bench?

Imaginary Keith: You’re already leaning on it.  Let’s hear it.

Son:  Three geese dad.  Three little geese.  What’s the big deal?  And you don’t even live there, so I don’t see why . . .

Imaginary Keith: Careful.  I’m still the dad.  Remember that?

Son: Dad?

Imaginary Keith: Yes

Son:  Why are you wearing so many hats?

Imaginary Keith:  Recess!  Five minute recess!