My Shampoos And World Woes

I have tried them all. Nothing works. In the beginning, I vigorously massaged with Head & Shoulders. I moved on and upward to Ionil-T. I retreated to inexpensive coal tar formulas and then to plain gallon jugs of goo that cost me 1 buck per gallon. Every day, sometimes twice per day, I massaged. “How much more could there be?” I wondered. I was too embarrassed to call a plumber to dredge the sink…and too poor.

Last year, to get some relief from her real woes, The Woman Whose Name I Am Not Permitted To Mention, presented me with a fancy salon-quality shampoo. I guess it set her back 50 bucks. It doesn’t work but I am grateful that I was worth adding to her long long list of worries.

She worries about the affairs in Kabul, she wakes up screaming and trembling from her nightmares that a Republican has taken control of the White House. There is a legless man who resides on a street corner near our house who wears a sign around his neck, “Vietnam veteran.” Soon enough, thanks to The Woman Whose Name I Am Not Permitted To Mention, he will take up residence in one of our spare bedrooms. She is fond of Detroit area Catholic charities although I suspect she knows as well as anyone else does, that this guy, God, is a figment of the imagination of deluded zillions. She accepts calls from madmen at 3. A.M. who begin, “Dr. Vinyard, can I come over right now to discuss my term paper with you because…?” She rejects them. Firmly, she says, “Please wait until 5.30 because I want to bathe and drink a ton of Starbuck coffee to ready myself for your assault.”

One worry we have in common: the fate of our granddaughter, Anika. If you knew her, you’d worry, too. She’s worth it and she has been cursed with a mother and father from Hell. Why don’t you just come over some time and meet her? Then, you’ll join us in worry. Maybe you will have some solutions for us.

P.S. Bring your favorite shampoo.

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  1. This is a puzzling post. What is so wrong about your hair that it resists treatment by the most expensive and exotic shampoos? When I saw your hair a couple of summers ago, it was a wiry thatch of gray that seemed to be nailed to the top of your head. Not having my latex gloves available, I didn’t make a closer inspection, but I saw no lice, fleas or cooties jumping off your noggin. There is nothing wrong that a good haircut wouldn’t fix. I know this is a difficult task for you because it’s hard to steal a haircut. But your self-inflicted tonsorial efforts yield bizarre results, combining the worst aspects of a Capuchin monk’s do and the Parris Island coiffure. For a cut that costs less than $1, you can go to the same barber school used by your soon-to-be bedmate, the legless Nam vet. Don’t worry about those stories alleging that his legs were cut off while he was being shaved by a nervous student. Not true. And after your haircut, you’ll not just be given a pretty balloon. They’ll lather one up and let you shave it.

    God is not “a figment of the imagination…” I have connected the lessons of this blog. God is a placebo. It works. As for side effects, I prefer stupidity to tardive dyskinesia. Here is a picture of God on a windy day. Great hair!

  2. That picture tells me a lot. It is your father, and you need to work your way through, around and out of your oedipal complex.

    Today I ventured forth (or was it third?) to a barber. My second visit since 1965. We will test your seborrheic dermatitis hypothesis over the next few days.

    Third. Must I remind you once again about your crude displays of obscenities? “Tardive dyskinesia,” indeed! This is a respectable journal.

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