Words of Wisdom

"Next!"

It was time for a haircut. This meant another quick trip to see Hennie, my pint-sized, grandmotherly barber. This is usually a brief affair, as your agent only requires a few buzzes over the skull with a number three razor.

There was only myself and another man waiting in Hennie's hole-in-the-wall barbershop. A third, unoccupied chair held two bags of groceries. These belonged to the man beside me. Through one plastic bag, I could see a large box of frozen, pre-cooked sausages.

My seatmate was a round, sweaty fellow. He wore a plain white, short-sleeved dress shirt that was opened at the neck. Underneath this garment was a white T-shirt. By about an inch, the sleeves on the T-shirt were longer than the ones on his dress shirt.

A few tufts of dark hair surrounded the top of his ears. Another line of follicles graced the lower regions at the back of his head. He didn't have very much hair at all. It wouldn't take Hennie very long to fix him up with her razor.

On this basis, I considered offering my turn to the fellow. But he was deeply engaged in an issue of People magazine, circa July 2003. He had plucked the publication from the disorganized pile on the coffee table in front of us, as if drawing from a deck of cards.

While reading People magazine, the man wore a very unusual look on his face. His tongue was curled over his bottom lip. It remained in this position while he read. This gave him the appearance of a doubtful lizard.

I decided not to disturb him. I rose from my seat and then lowered myself into Hennie's barbering chair.

***

"What can I do ya for, Doc?"

My closely cropped hair is not meant to be a fashion statement. It's not even an anti-fashion statement. Although it's a convenient style, this is only a remote consideration in allowing Hennie to shave my head with her number three razor.

If necessary, I could probably do the job myself. While she's not a big fan of the buzz cut, Mrs. Wonders could likely be convinced to do it for me, as well. We would just need to avail ourselves of an electric hair shaver with a number three razor.

But that's not what I want.

Although Hennie only charges six dollars for her work, the cost of her service isn't a factor, either. While I'm practical by nature, the low price is an irrelevant byproduct of the matter. Besides, I always give her ten dollars for her time.

Even Hennie's head-shaving abilities aren't enough to draw me to her little barbershop every month. Hennie, of course, is a specialist in shaving heads. It's the only kind of haircut that anyone seeks from her. This is because she's not particularly adept at any other hair-cutting configuration. As a consequence, she has become highly skilled only in the art of head shaving.

It hardly bothers Hennie that people do not want her services for anything other than head shaving. In fact, she prefers it this way. As she told me once, "If ya don't do what you're good at, ya might as well stay home."

Instead, my particular hairstyle and choice of service provider has everything to do with the opportunity to spend a few moments in her company. For a mere six dollars (and a four dollar tip), I gain exposure to her rambling stories and opinions, her unique grasp of language and the unusual blend of visitors to her tiny barbershop.

I can get my head shaved and be entertained at the same time. Digital cable could never do that.

***

"Okay, Doc. Now, scooch down or you'll only get half a haircut."

At least half of my ten dollars is well spent when Hennie asks me to "scooch down." I sit tall in her barbering chair just so she'll say it. But even if I did scooch down first, she would probably tell me to do it anyway. I think she likes saying it just as much as I like hearing it.

Somehow, Hennie has also come to the conclusion that your agent is a medical doctor. About six months ago, she started calling me "Doc." I've paid attention to her other customers during this time, just in case she uses the name as a familiar form of address. But I've yet to hear her call anyone else by this particular moniker.

Beyond calling me "Doc," there is other evidence that Hennie has decided that I'm a medical doctor. Whenever I scooch down into her barbering chair, she regales me with complaints about her physical health. Often, she'll discuss the myriad of health woes experienced by her long-suffering, good friend, Fiona.

Fiona, of course is also burdened by the antics of her extended family, another frequent topic in Hennie's arsenal of stories. These problems include an ex-husband who suffers from schizophrenia and the antics of her nephew, the Sack's very own Maxwell.

But most often, Hennie tells me about her own "plumbing" problems. I'm now intimately aware of her bladder woes and the inner workings of her private parts. During a recent visit, she rambled on about her "Fallopians" for most of my haircut. Near the end of her rant, she looked at me in the mirror and exclaimed, "Go figure, Doc. Before all this happened, I thought Fallopians were some folks back in the time of Moses."

On another occasion, Hennie provided me with a detailed description of her latest symptoms and diagnosis. It was a grand tour of the female bladder and reproductive system. Finally, she paused for a few rare moments and said, "So, in layman's terms, Doc, my junk is sunk."

I have no idea why Hennie thinks I'm a medical doctor. She rarely asks me anything about my own personal circumstances. I have made several feeble interjections to correct the matter of my occupation, but she pays no heed. Thankfully, she never asks for medical advice or recommendations. So I just scooch down, listen and nod sagely. This seems to work well for both of us.

Listening to Hennie is worth every penny.

***

"When I wanna get classy, I put on my sunglasses."

On this latest trip to Hennie's barbershop, she had little to say about medical matters. After a brief complaint about some wrist pain ("It hurts when I move it like that -- I know, Doc, then don't do that."), she moved on to the topic of her recent one-week vacation.

Hennie was quick to describe her time off as a "staycation." Apparently, this involves spending one's holidays close to home. She said she learned about the word on CNN. If the ancient TV in her barbershop isn't showing the Weather Network, it will certainly be tuned to CNN. This is where Hennie gets her information about the world.

Her only complaint about the channel concerns Larry King. She thinks he looks like he died about five years ago. She could be right about that.

By her own admission, Hennie's vacations are always well deserved. She says she spends so much time listening to problems among her friends that her head would explode if she didn't take a week or two off every summer.

Hennie says it's not difficult for others to know when she's on vacation. She puts on a pair of jean shorts and keeps them on for the duration of her time off. Then she stores the shorts away until her next summer break.

"If you see me with my jean shorts on," Hennie tells her friends, "then put your problems in your pocket for a while." Apparently, her friends are now well aware of this rule and let their woes simmer until Hennie's jean shorts have disappeared.

One of Hennie's activities during her recent staycation was a leisurely day of blueberry picking in the nearby Annapolis Valley. This year's crop, according to Hennie, was quite spectacular. She said she picked enough to keep herself in blueberry pie "from now until Judgment Day." Then she tapped her knuckles on your agent's skull and said, "Touch wood."

She knocks her knuckles on my skull at least once during every haircut.

Hennie is quite conscious that a pair of cut-off jeans may not be the most sophisticated apparel for a woman in her mid-sixties. Fortunately, this where her oversized sunglasses come into play. When she dons the glasses, she feels instantly transformed into the persona of an aging Hollywood actress. As proof, she picked up the aforementioned glasses from the counter and smiled into the mirror at me.

"See, Doc," she said proudly, "instant class."

***

"The day you see me walking on water is the day you'll hear me passing judgment on someone else."

The most notable aspect of Hennie's "staycation," however, was her visit to the old town's recent Gay Pride Parade. She attended the event with her good friend, Fiona.

According to Hennie, she had been curious about the event for some time and wanted to "see what the fuss was all about." She said it took some effort to convince Fiona to join her. This wasn't because Fiona had any problems with the parade. It had everything to do with her irritable bowel. Hennie said Fiona's bowel had been "bitchin' at her something bad" for the previous few days. Nevertheless, Hennie convinced her that a visit to the parade might be just what the doctor ordered.

This was one of the moments where your agent simply nodded sagely.

So with two folding chairs in the trunk, Hennie and Fiona set off for the Gay Pride Parade. It was a bright, sunny day, so they brought a pair of umbrellas with them to provide some shade. Apparently, Fiona is quite prone to sunstroke if she sits outside for too long.

Hennie said the parade was a fantastic experience. The exuberance of the participants, the cheerful music and the appreciative crowds almost brought tears to her eyes. The highlight of the event was when Hennie and Fiona got their pictures taken with two statuesque drag queens, who, according to Hennie, were "taller than the treetops."

The only startling moment of the afternoon was when a float sponsored by a local sexual health centre passed by. A group of young men and women dressed in skimpy beach attire were atop the float. As they passed, they threw handfuls of what Hennie thought were bubble gum and candy to the assembled crowds. Hennie said she and Fiona managed to catch their fair share of the freebies as the float passed by.

However, Hennie was surprised to learn that the bubble gum and candy were actually condoms. She said Fiona almost wet her pants when informed of this. At first, Hennie said she wasn't sure about what to do with the condoms. She said she had no intention of letting a man near her unless it was the good Lord calling her home. Besides, she added, the state of her Fallopians and her sunken junk wouldn't help matters, anyway.

Fortunately, she came up with a good use for the condoms. She said one of Fiona's nephews was "just after having another little fella." Apparently, it was his fourth or fifth child from three different women.

According to Hennie, by the time the first three kids reached the age of five, the local schools were "fitting them for dunce caps." Fiona, she added, expected the same thing to happen to the next two kids. As a result, Hennie figured Fiona could give the condoms to her nephew so he could put a stop to this situation.

As Hennie finished my haircut with her number three razor, she brushed some errant hair from the back of my shirt. After taking my ten dollars, she placed the note in the drawer below her barbering counter. Then she retrieved a small paper bag from within it.

"Fiona wouldn't give these to her nephew, Doc. But I hear he lives up there in your neck of the woods."

I looked into the bag and saw a small collection of condoms.

"So, I figured the next time I saw you, I'd get you to pass them on. The boy's name is Maxwell. Just give 'em to him and say it's from me, if you like. I'd do it myself, but I figure it might carry more weight if he got them from a medical man."

I nodded sagely and walked out of Hennie's barbershop with the bag of condoms.

***