When we got back "home" (which was a motel) I noticed that the hair stylist hadn't done a very good job and had left several long pieces uncut that hung below where the ends of the blunt cut were supposed to be. I looked all over the motel room for scissors, and finding none, asked my parents for suggestions. My Dad said the only thing he had that could cut was his penknife, and so I sat on the couch while he literally hacked off pieces of my hair with a knife. This memory is odd and somehow rather special.
In the end, I believe, it all boils down to social ineptitude, a thing which I am fascinated by because it rarely means anything even remotely negative in spite of all the negative reactions it may garner from other people. At thirteen I was a painfully shy child in spite of my impulsiveness and was strangely unaware that a haircut from a penknife might not turn out right. My father, bless him, thought nothing strange of it either.
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Matthew has Aspergers; it looks like asparagus but it tastes like autism with soda water. Near the end of my last year at my other school, Matthew knocked on my classroom door at lunch time. When I opened the door he said in his monotone way, "My toque is under your desk." ("Toque" - that's a little tidbit of Canadiana.) When I asked Matt why his toque was under my desk he said, "I hid it there from Robert." This is odd primarily because Matt is fifteen and not six. When I left that school I gave the secretary my petty cash drawer and asked her please to let Matthew take a dollar whenever he forgot his milk money. She said she would but sometimes I still worry that she didn't, though Matt is a grown up man by now. Sort of.
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Now I live by the sea.
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1 comment:
Ahhh..so that's where you are. Love the pic..black is definately your color ;)
Miss you lots.
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