HAIRCUTS AND SUCH.

Dunno ‘bout all y’all’s hair, (head-hair, he said hurriedly), but, my hair behaves quite oddly in the aftermath of a haircut. Wait, that’s not accurate. I had more than one hair cut...Hairs cut? Sounds odd, but I’m going to go with...wait...hair cutting? Let’s try it. My hair behaves oddly in the immediate aftermath of a hair cutting – yep, ‘cuz, y’know, process; or, more accurately, in the aftermath of the post-tonsorial ablutions.  Hairs that had meekly stayed in their assigned places as I left the barber’s are, asserting their independence. Hairs that had defied the rabble rousing vortices in the back seat of a homeward auto rickshaw are, post-shower, deciding to strike out on their own; refusing direction and distribution. Hitherto unseen cowlicks making their haphazard presence annoyingly known; not unlike the fellow in the row in front who stands up and has a leisurely stretch and look around while a crucial moment on the playing field passes unseen.

Bad hair cutting, I hear you say. No, I assert. My barber is a gentleman of skill and art. His cutting of my hair has been honed by more than a decade’s worth of familiarity with my requirements. His work cannot be faulted. No, the fault lies elsewhere, and, having pondered the matter I believe I have understood the issue.

Adolescence, that’s what it is. Adolescence, that time of discovery and exploration, that yearning for a glimpse over the horizon, that search for identity, that’s what has the cowlicks defying my stylist instructions. Can’t be blamed, really, Imean, it’s a phase, innit? Imean, we’ve all been through it, haven’t we? Growing from a subcutaneous bud into the heady freedoms of early maturity only to be held in place by the weight of older tradition and order, we’ve all been there.

Then one day, a sharp and sudden liberation from the weight that has been pressing down, and...cowlick.

I now no longer try to tame my cow licks. Time, and aging will kill that spirit soon enough.

A Horny Dilemma

So, here’s me, dealing with yet another horny dilemma.

To shave or not to shave, that is the question.

That is to say, do I shave the beard I have grown? Or do I endure the niggling snipping and snapping necessary for a neat beard and occasioned by a wholly unwarrantable desire to appear well-groomed?

In the one hand, a well trimmed, mostly salt beard, although, I’m told, with enough of a serving of pepper to make things interesting. Whatever that means (told, but not explained); a presentable marker of my age, experience, and wisdom (putative).

In the other, a clean shaven mien that, I’ve been told, belies my chronological age, which, according to researched reports, is a good thing, bordering on an Official Good Thing.

In the third hand, the memory of behavior of mine, behavior, I’m convinced, that has its origins in the mistaken belief that youthful appearance allows for youthful licence. And that, that, makes me want to get away from my skin, from the inside. Knowledge of actions and behaviors; knowing that I gave in to impulses that read inelegant in anyone let alone in a man of my age and experiences, well-travelled and adequately scarred experiences, makes that particular handful somewhat slimy to the touch.

And therein the horny dilemma, the beard, for all its flavourful connotations, is a daily, quite often startling, reminder that I am not a young man. And that for all its charms wit, and/or wisdom, cannot substitute for youth and prospects. But, a well-trimmed, not to say manicured, face-lawn does, and has, facilitated exceedingly pleasant interactions (of the cerebral kind) India’s talented, bright, enticingly intelligent, single, – operative word heads-up – young,  women. [Side bar – Bengaluru’s beer, bullshit, and bonhomie, scene does not seem to include single women appropriate to my age.] A clean shaven misapprehension of youth and presumed vigor, jeez, that feels so, y’know, Trump-like.

Ah well, a long Sunday brunch, in a convivial caravanserai, exploring ideas and emotions with a woman who smells of spring evenings and whose laughter sounds like temple bells in the mist, can last for hours. What are we looking at with the other? 7, 10 minutes, tops, and that’s if I can remember my multiplication tables.

I guess this is why god made the incognito windows.

"That Ar****le in the White House"

Found myself thinking about words and how they are used and affects and such.

“Don’t be such a dick” we admonish each other; “that chutiya...” we say dismissively; “that asshole in the White House” we say, as though we are blameless.

Body parts, essential, fiercely protected, often times cherished, body parts, used to denigrate and degrade; that makes no sense.

Take my dick -- dear heavens, I’m channelling Henny Youngman and will now stop – as an example. I am, needless to say, quite attached to him. Our life long association has proven to be of mutual benefit and the occasional benediction. Oh, there have been moments of conflict, the odd involuntary spasm in our relationship, even the blessedly rare moment of incontinence, but, and I say this with some feeling, my dick and I have been happy with each other and have had no irreconcilable conflicts with the public at large.

Which is why I feel guilty when, giving into social norms and usage, I denigrate the behavior of a loutish Other as dickish. Dickish behavior, in a bottom line sort of way, is more descriptive of the release of internal pressures, the controlled release of Nature mandated imperatives; vide: bathrooms, courtship rituals, et.al; more to be applauded than reviled. To ignore that aspect of my dick is to do him and his brothers, (and sisters, of course, it’s just that I can’t be quite as authoritative...ah you know what I mean), a disservice and I shall watch myself closely.

“What a pussy” I’ve heard said, in describing timidly behavior. And that just ain’t right. Pussy, and this is a data based conclusion, is anything but timid. Shy and retiring perhaps, but that is not be misconstrued as timidity. When aroused, pussy can be a transfixing power that demands, in the most wonderfully pinkish kind of way, one’s rigid attention. An attention that can be enforced by her should she choose to, vide, Kegel.

Asshole as a pejorative makes even less sense. My personal asshole, whose name is none of your business, is a cooperative orifice, in close touch with an essential service to my internal systems and society as a wh..., as an entity. Does that sound like Donald Trump to you?

“Why are you not dating?” The Statuesque Young Woman (SYW), imperious in body and language, wanted to know.
“Ummm...” replied Uncle Old Guy (UOG), “The spirit is willing but...” his voice trailing off as he contemplated the end of that aphorism and its implications. He needn’t have bothered. SYM was not listening.
She was scanning him, silvered head to well shod, if a touch weary, toes. Her brow delicately furrowed, but imperial for all of that. Her gaze evaluating and...”You present well” she said. “We...that is to say, I, fail to comprehend why W...I, never see you in the company of an Other” SYM’s commitment to gender equality and choice unmarked by the momentary pronoun slip.
“I”, SYW said, firmly taking control of her hoi polloi mingling persona, “find you an interesting person. You are, by all accounts, well travelled and adequately educated. I’m given to understand you speak more than one language. Further, your presence in this place and time suggests a degree of discretionary income which in addition to your lack of encumbrances such as family or spouse should, in and ordered and rational universe, which, I assure you it will be when I...but...that’s the not the point. Why are you alone?” Her tone suggesting that if the reports she had received were somehow inaccurate, heads would, if not roll, at the very least they’d rock. The tangential implication that the fault is intrinsic with UOG remained unsaid but loud in the arch of the imperial eyebrow.
“I...” UOG started to reply.
He needn’t have bothered.
“Such must not be allowed to endure”, SYW said, her look pinning UOG to the barroom floor, “I saw you in the company of some chick, if I have the phrase right, earlier. Go and find her and see to it.”
The Statuesque Young Woman turned away from UOG to lend her attention to the presence of another courtier, not unkindly, but definitely.
UOG sagged with relief, his incompetence at ‘seeing to it’ a well established truth and the royal attention being notoriously, ummm, peripatetic.

Eavesdropping on a conversation, a fairly tense conversation, on my FB feed, got me thinking.

The point of contention was an article written to highlight the undeniable truth that women, particularly young women face issues that men, of any age, fail to see as problems. Among them, the writer, with justifiable anger and anguish, referred to the issue of adult men “...hitting on 15 year old check-out girls.”

A respondent (male), while agreeing to the general tenor of the article, took exception (mild) to what he termed ageism as a counter to sexism. Ignoring, perhaps subsuming, the implications of paedophilia in his, to quote Bob Seeger, “...what to leave in, what to leave (I’ve always thought that ought to be ‘take’) out”, critique, the respondent ran into the buzz-saw of a co-respondent. It needs to be noted that the respondent is a gentleman of my acquaintance and is, to my certain knowledge, a man of impeccable ethics and responsibility, at least insofar as Lolita-esque issues are concerned. She, the co-respondent, was, and quite vehemently so, unwilling to allow to the issue of 15 year old girls being H. Humbert-ed to be minimized. The episode ended – Buzz-Saw – 1; Respondent; 0 with Respondent retiring from the field with grace (a degree of).

Which, as mentioned, got me to thinking; as a father (daughter) and grandfather (grand-daughter) I examined my own behavior towards the various check-out girls I have encountered through my consumerist life. I got to wondering if my service-worker friendliness could be misinterpreted. I must admit that it could be, and for that I apologize, retrospectively and prospectively, no offense and/or aggression intended. Rather, the ‘flirting’, if one wants to call it that is predicated on appreciation rather than acquisition. I am sorry that you, young server, have had to live a life in which friendliness is viewed as sexual aggression. If I could I’d change that. Not all references to your mien and demeanour are with the intention of denuding you. Sometimes, you remind me of my daughter at your age and that which you are interpreting as a come-on is no more than a pleased appreciation of your entry into the adult world.

None of this is to say that creepy old men aren’t trying to get into 15 year old pants. Just to point out that that is not all of us. Some, most, of us are just enjoying, without touching, the Spring.

A photograph of a tiger with her young adolescent cubs doing the I-love-you-Ma-when-do-we-eat-full-body-leg-rub thing; evocative and all but the tag line, which included the words unbreakable bond, got me thinking.

First though, that unbreakable bond thing? Yeah, well, not so much. Maternal bonds, especially in the more predatory specie, tend to weaken, if not actually dissolve, as the cub matures; gender, mating rights, threat perception, hunting range and rights, sorts of issues help in that dissolution process. We humans, (and I use the term loosely given the amount of sapience we display in the stewardship of our lives), have sublimated those ‘animal’ tendencies according to our cultural norms. There is not, however, a parent(sane) alive who has not emitted a soul sigh of relief at the adulthood of an offspring and the ensuing easing of parental R word, responsibility; bond weakened, boom.

None of which is to detract from the photograph; nor the resonances with the I-miss-my-slightly-less-predatory-mom places in my soul. As a work of art, it did its job and touched me. The tag line, however, was a touch painting the lily and gilding gold-ish. Not, as the Seinfeld Krew might be tempted to say, that there is anything wrong with that. I also understand, I think, the need of the writer of that tag line to hug his/her mom and ask her if dinner was ready, expressed in the only means available. Hell, I might have done the same on a different day.

With an assurance of apologies for inadvertent offense and disrespect and having, one hopes, soothed the sensibilities of the author of the tag line - over statement, emotional need, wtf am I complaining about?

See, the overstatement of an emotional need, is, as even a cursory glance at the history of governance will show, a method of communication between, no, actually, from, the ruler to the ruled. It is, after all, an efficient way to recruit the great unwashed and unsophisticated into the  cannon fodder needed to man the front lines while the heavy thinking is happening in  ivory towers. Bonds cemented by emotion are not susceptible to reason. One of the reasons why Religion got into the business of governance and that, as we can all see, has worked out so well. Reason is a necessary component in the governance of a putative democracy.And when we, as more washed, although not necessarily more sophisticated, society accept that overstatement as the lingua franca, well, Trump, RSS, Daesh, Nazis, militant Buddhists(!) et.al, happen. Accepting florid displays of emotional need into the patterns of political, which is to say public, speech is handing the reins of democracy over to those who eschew the sense in the words unbreakable bonds in favour of the emotion triggered and generally leads to snarling, and lunging, and blood, and pain; a real possibility in the life cycle of the pictured trio.

NLP is a thing folks, like it or not.

Irritated& Shamed Indian

A question raised on Quora



What are the most irritating and shameful things in India?

I stand shamed when I'm reminded that the inclusive, open hearted philosophy of hinduism is institutionalized into the exclusionary rule ridden Religion of Hinduism replete with uniforms and hierarchies. That just ain't right.
I hang my head when a culture and philosophy that spawned Gandhi finds it so easy to justify killing in the name of Religion.
My skin crawls when a culture that Officially venerates Woman, finds it difficult to codify and control institutionalized violence against women. Do the khap panchayat rulings ring a bell? So very Talibanesque of them, no? But, please, don't tell 'em I said that. (see #2) And yes, Khap Panchayats are as much a religion, rituals, rules, repression, and all, as any of the other Official ones.
Shamed, I am, when jingoism and its fellow traveler racism is being woven into the fabric of the nation; when the Other is demonized and when politically necessary, reviled.
I cringe when I see unimaginable amounts of money are spent on monuments and temples to Mammon, while children go unfed, unclothed, uneducated, uncared for.
I get most irritated that India, YoMo'In (young modern India), aam admi, good (for a given value) people, accept this as the way things, in all their lal-bathied, self promoting VVIP (uppercase by decree)ways are. I shouldn't have said most, 'cuz, I get even more irritated that you, YoMo'In, with your abysmal voting percentages, allow this to happen.
Oh, and the incessant honking is maddening.