195 Days to go

     When I was in my twenties, which seems so long ago, I weighted over 250 pounds and sported an afro.  Yes, Art had an afro.  I also had hair, lots of hair on my head.  At that time, I was renting an apartment with a guy because I was not making enough money on my own.  He had an afro and said I would look in one as well. So, I went to a beauty salon and said, 'I want an afro.'
      I walked into the beauty salon and spent several hours moving from one chair to another as my hair was washed, treated, permed, put in curlers, treated and then cooked under the hair dryer.  I have seen pictures of women having conversation between themselves as they sit under the hair dryers. I had a hard time thinking to myself much less trying to talk with anyone while a jet plane roared over my hair.  At one point, it felt as though I was my head was in a broiler. That was about the time I wanted to leave and chuck the whole idea.  I just remembered the odor of the perm chemicals which were cooking on my hair.  That smell is a smell all of its own.
     The only other smell almost as irritating is that of Ringers Lactate.   I was introduced to Ringers at Bethesda Naval Hospital when  I had a summer job. Ringers is used as a fluid and electrolyte replenisher for persons suffering from a lot of blood loss due to trauma, surgery, or a burn injury.  Back then, the Naval Hospital  used glass bottles instead of plastic pouches which are used now  for the IV solutions. A patient knocked over an IV stand with a bottle of Ringers hanging from it.  I got to mop up the mess as the odor filled the floor.
      After spending a long afternoon in the beauty salon, I walked out with an afro. My afro was a mini afro because although I had hair, I did not have that much hair.  And a lot of hair results in a bigger afro.  I had a baby afro.  But it was my afro and I was assured by the hair stylist  that as my hair grew out, my afro would get bigger.  And when there was barely any afro left, I went back to the beauty salon, sat under the jet engine as the chemicals in my hair and on my head, made my hair, now full of curlers, cook until I had a bigger afro.
     And I walked out proud that I no longer had a baby afro but the real McCoy.  I had a real afro with a full head of hair.
     The days of a full head of hair are gone.  Now I have some hair growing where once I had a pasture of hair.  In order to save some money about three years ago I decided to cut my own hair. I was going to the barber shop every six weeks and spending twenty dollars to have my lack of hair trimmed.. I was in and out of the barber chair  in less than fifteen minutes. I told my wife that I could do my own hair.  Cutting my own hair is not quite as bad as performing my own open heart surgery on myself while looking in the mirror.  I just wish the mirror was not showing me everything in reverse. I have trouble seeing behind my head and usually end up missing a forest of trees on my neck.  I pass my hand over my head and my neck and my hand says everything is okay.  What did I ever do to my hand to get this kind of mis-information?
     I usually ask my wife to check out my hair cutting job.  This is about the time she says there are a couple of places I missed.  I ask my hand, How can this be? My hand does not reply. So I place my hand with the hair trimmer in a position only a pretzel would know and attempt to remove the missed hair. Sometimes I have my wife use the trimer on my hair if I can't get to the right spot.  Some weeks I have no trouble bending my wrist into unnatural positions and other weeks, my wrist and mind won't work together.
    Now that I don't have hair growing on my head anymore, why do I have hair growing from places that hair should not be?