Rolling Lint

July 10 2010 021There are certain responsibilities I’m acquiring in the pursuit to become a Remade Man. Having determined that I look younger, slimmer, taller, smarter, less obnoxious, more mature and much less likely to go postal when confronted with a floor to ceiling display of men’s jeans all by the virtue of wearing black, there is a maintenance phase that I must now enter into.

If it’s cool with you, I think I will forego hand washing my black clothes in Woolite Dark because I like to keep things simple. Owning multiple laundry detergents runs counter to this concept. Yes, true, I use separate soaps for body and hair, but not always, and partially it’s a shopping thing, as I’d go through an all-in-one faster and have to buy more often. Reducing the amount of shopping in my life (at least for things like soap and shampoo) is the greatest way to keep simple. And several friends have told me my quest to stay simple is successful. They know who they are ..l.,

Black does, when more formal than a torn t-shirt, require a bit of Lint-rollerattention, so with that in mind I picked up some lint rollers. Now, I’d like to claim that I got my cat to coordinate with my new wardrobe. It would sound kind of thorough. Truth is he was black long before this process ever started. He was also a little SOB before this process started. I know what you’re thinking: “Kudos for considering lint rollers for cat hair removal, but black cat hair on black clothing? You’re wasting my time on a blog for this?”

I forgive you.

Oh, my mistake. I should have shown you a close-up photo of my cat. There are a couple features you can’t make out in the photo above. They are more prominent here:


The problem with adding a Satanic Cat to a dollar store lint roller is that I ended up with something like this:


Of course, lint rollers are by their nature sticky. And, inconveniently, white. Also, of course, I was wearing some of my new, dark attire when addressing the newly shredded lint roller.

Suffice to say, it appears my t-shirt has cut itself shaving. Severely. And the other lint roller isn’t doing a thing to help. Nor is the cat. My best solution now might be to cuddle the damned cat until his fur covers the sticky bits of lint roller all over me. Problem solved; black restored.

Anybody want to buy a cat, as-is, no exorcism?

Please; help me see the point of Twitter. Follow me: @shpak60

Published in: on December 13, 2010 at 9:43 am  Comments Off on Rolling Lint  
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Now, I have quite an attachment to my hair. Always have. To understand you have to realize I spent 11 years with pretty much this hair cut:


As you can see from the expression, I was not fond of this. Keep in mind it was the 60’s and people wore their hair like this:


A further complication came in the form of my father, probably from some sort of “how hard can it be?” urge that has been passed on genetically. I have yet to exercise that urge on my own hair, and I will probably get through this life without trying. You see, with a pair of electric clippers, my first haircut was traumatic, resulting in a large chunk of my ear being detached from my head. Okay, it wasn’t HUGE, but I was much smaller then:


I do attribute to this trauma my lifelong… hesitance to seek coiffing. Even though many stylists have expressed surprise that such injury could be inflicted with clippers, such injury was, and at a young enough age that the damage is elemental. So when presented with any sort of procrastinatory choice between getting a haircut and, say, a fish hook caught under a thumbnail, the haircut will always lose out to the more pleasant option.

Inevitably, cranial weed whacking was going to be part of Kathryn’s process. She knew, she told me, a marvelous and exclusive stylist who was willing to do missionary work. For those of you who have been following, this is of course Veronica, of Veronica’s Hair Shoppe. Unknowingly, we had a brief association when I served as her bodyguard one tense evening at Joe Kool’s. Here you can see Veronica and I reacting to Kathryn’s manscara idea:


My head emerged well tended. This was lucky, as Veronica made a point of discussing her avoidance of “clients with attitude”, which I understood as shorthand for, “don’t give me any lip, Hairboy. I’m holding scissors.” She had no idea at this point that, because of the ear maiming, there is no place I am more subservient, docile and timid than a stylist’s chair. Manual or electric, I respect the blade. And on Thursday, in Veronica’s hands, the blade served me well.