The reason I'm still here

Yesterday I moved all the big things. Chairs, couches, love seats, beds--those were the focus. My parents, their truck and trailer had made a one-day-only appearance in the Emerald City.

Once they had dropped off the peasant's winter supply of coal, there was more than enough room for my things. They were late arriving, and eager to be leaving. And so it was, that in under 3 hours, many heavy things were carried down many flights of stairs. Now I have absolutely nothing to sit on.

Then Shannon's mother stopped by to pick up the remnants of her daughter's things. As the move progressed, it had become clear that those remnants not mere scraps, but were, in fact, room-sized. Susan took everything except the half-dozen or so pieces of art that had hung on the walls. Now their safe return to her house seems to be my responsibility.

Why she left these isn't quite clear, but it seemed to have something to do with her "not feeling good" about their chances of survival in her car. The implication being, of course, that my, much smaller car, is more desirable for the transportation of things sheathed in thin, brittle glass. Thanks for that honor.

Last night I slept on a thermorest mattress measuring just under 18 inches wide, swaddled in a sub-zero rated sleeping bag. It was an itchy, sticky night by turns unbearably hot and nipple-erectingly cold. Inasmuch as I spent only about half the night balanced on the thermorest, the itchy was from the disgustingly dirty Arya rug covering most of my living room floor.

You may be asking why the hell I'm still here--indeed I'm beginning to ask that myself. The answer--which I continually remind myself of, lest I forget--is twofold.

I haven't seen all the movies playing in Seattle that have no chance of coming to Spokane. There are about four--five if I decide to go to the midnight screening of Donnie Darko Director's Cut. I also want to see Gozu, The Brotherhood of War, What the [bleep] do we know, and The Last Shot.

I also still have to see Hero, Sky Captain and Shaun of the Dead, but those all seem to be playing in Spokane.

Secondly, I need a haircut badly.

I've had one good haircut in the last five years, and it was from a guy named Lewis in Fremont. Lewis' days off are Friday and Saturday, thus, I'm here until at least tomorrow. Lewis charges a sickeningly reasonable 15 dollars.

My last Spokane haircut was so bad that I swore off haircuts altogether for almost 9 months, until I found Lewis. I was back in town on business, and had a little over an hour before I had to meet with a client. I rushed into Gretchen's on Hamilton.

Me: Alright, can you get me out of here in less than an hour?
Girl: Sure, no problem. How should I cut you?
Me: Well, hmmm, I need to get rid of quite a bit of length, but still want the shaggy thing . . . have you seen Big Fish?
Girl: Yeah.
Me: I want Billy Crudup's hair.
Girl: [eyes wide] I know exactly what you're talking about. That's a great look. He's so hot.

"Good. Yes, it is. Yes he is." She went on to describe just about exactly the look I was going for. It should be said at this point that my glasses aren't purely cosmetic. I have such poor eyesight that, without those glasses, a mirror more than 2 feet away renders my reflection a dirty pink blur.

Thus, everyday acts take on religious significance. Haircuts become profound leaps of faith.

This hairdresser, though, seemed like a safe bet. She watched good films, had good taste in leading men and their hair. I felt things were going to be fine.

My poor sight has enhanced other things: my sense of smell, touch--my hearing as well somewhat. After she seemed finished with the sides, I could feel that my hair still hung somewhere about halfway down my ears. This is good, I thought. Then, just when I thought everything was about done, she reached for a bottle. The contents of this bottle, as they touched my scalp, took on the consistency of melted wax, and the girl proceeded to tug my hair in various directions for about five minutes. She paid special attention to my bangs.

These tugs felt familiar, and recalled for some reason my freshman year of college. Dread crept into my being. She couldn't be. We had the talk, she understood. On a certain level, I thought we connected.

After she'd tugged to her general satisfaction, she took a theatrical step back and said, "Alright, whatdyathink?" I reluctantly put on my glasses.

<-- The face staring back at me looked less like this than this -->

In that way it came to pass that my cranial fortress and I left Gretchen's--angry and 30 dollars poorer--having been thoroughly Rossed. Hence, Spokane, as a town of hairdressers, is dead to me.

So I remain in Seattle at least one more day, until the movies I desire are seen, and the hair I want is had.

That is SO NOT the look I wanted.