Nachos and Static Cling

“Down the hill, nachos. Twenty minutes. Be there.”

Okay, simple. Down hill. Man, gravity is the schizzle sometimes, ain’t it? Twenty minutes? Subtract 5 minutes for gravity to do its thing and that leaves 15 to address appearance. Again, no problem as that’s about 75% of my time budget for the entire week to address grooming. Plenty of time without complications.

But I have complications.

4529_2265_kid-with-static-hair

Not the Author - he's even cuter.

As things are getting colder than a 20 year-old’s stare at my pick-up lines, there is a little piece of bliss I like to bring to my life particularly after a late night, and that is the Sunny Couch Nap. Probably a variation of the classic, ‘Resting My Eyes’ (developed by the visionary Reginald Lewis Cruttenden – a true genius in the field of napping and also my maternal grandfather and therefore the man responsible for my bitchin’ hair line), the Sunny Couch Nap is dependent on Mother Nature.

It’s about a 20 minute maneuver in itself, and I must confess to flawless execution if I do say so, but the chilly weather and clear blue skies mean a drop in relative humidity. Add to that my head rubbing on the arm of the couch as I writhe in nap ecstasy. Add even further the fact that I was still damp from bathing activity when I laid down. The bath water somehow didn’t counter the low humidity and free electrons transferred adequately to leave my hair in an odd state. It was flat and straight and static-y.

So now I have to deal with this and get out the door. Static. Rogue hairs searching the universe for more free electrons. Small children will be frightened. Wild animals agitated.

So I took a Bounce sheet and rubbed it on my head. I’m digging the dryer fresh scent.

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Published in: on November 8, 2010 at 7:35 am  Comments Off on Nachos and Static Cling  
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Mr. Bad Example

I like my red shirt.

I have reached a level of age and maturity wherein I no longer require the sartorial input of relatives senior to me. TA&R Guyhat is, I am old enough to dress myself.

I am comfort driven. I am charitably described as burly. In the summer, it gets warm and shirts with no arms afford ventilation.

Bright colours are fun.

Something of a graphic designer every second Thursday, I designed a logo for a band to which I once belonged that was a combination of iconic images: Boris Karloff as Frankenstein and John Lennon playing at the Larry Parnes audition pre-Beatlemania, Liverpool. I am proud of the logo. It’s on the red shirt.

I am somewhat ornery, established within myself and I often (okay, mostly) don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about me because I am convinced that I am basically all right, good, decent and in all an upstanding citizen, friend, father, member of society.

There’s some resistance to my red shirt from outside sources.

I feel, really, like I am being entrapped, lamb to slaughter, kickingly and screamingly dragged from the world of my design, of my comfort, of where I find myself after a five decades long battle for acceptance and self-acceptance into… well, I don’t know. If I could comprehend what I’m in for, it wouldn’t be scary now, would it?

Here’s the deal: LB (my friend) has this friend, Kathryn, of Katalyst Image Consulting, a consultancy that offers “males an opportunity to discreetly and confidentially address and conquer elements –appearance, behaviour, communication– that may be hindering their social or professional balance and excellence.”

I didn’t FEEL hindered this time last week. Now I’m not so sure. Charm school? At my age?