I am old.
Granted, at 31 I’m not the most ancient person you might know, but at times, I certainly feel it. I have a bad left knee and a bum right knee. I have a stiff neck and a tight back. My joints ache. I have white hair sprouting up on my chest. I have forehead showing where hair once grew.
And then came Friday, which added a new level of my, um, maturity.
As the stylist finished cutting my hair, she made her way through the usual bag o’ tricks that come at the end: trimming the sideburns, powdering the neck, things like that. She looked over her handiwork, pleased with the results. Something, though, caught her eye, and she reached for her straight-edge razor, making her way toward my ear.
Flashes of Reservoir Dogs danced through my head, accompanied by “Stuck in the Middle With You,” of course.
Violence, Tarantinoesque or otherwise, was avoided, but she dealt me what was perhaps a lower blow. She lopped off a hair on my ear. When did my ear start growing hairs long enough to be cut? And why hadn’t I noticed it myself? Has my old-man eyesight grown so poor that I can’t see a 1-2-inch hair growing where hair doesn’t belong? And who grows hair on their ear? I mean, you’re supposed to grow hair in your ear as you age. Why am I this hairy-eared freak?
Speaking of hairy, I watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this weekend, but not without some tribulations.
I had planned to catch a 6 or 7ish showing at Regal, but fate – and fighting – intervened, leaving me with later options. I opted for a 9 p.m. show at the Cinemark next to Fayette Mall, but I left too late and arrived at the box office at 9:01.
Me: One for the 9 o’clock Harry Potter.
Clerk: The 9:40?
Me: No, the 9 o’clock one.
Clerk: (Says nothing but gives me a puzzled look).
Me: Yeah, it’s just a bit past 9. I mean, it’s not sold out is it?
Me: So, yeah, I just need the one ticket for 9.
Clerk: You’ll be in the front row.
Clerk: You’ll be in the front row. (Pause). Wait. Is it just the one ticket?
Clerk (punching buttons): Yeah. It’ll be in the front row.
Me: I’ll pass.
Clerk: There’s still time for the 9:35, though.
Me: But I don’t want to sit there for 30 minutes.
So, I left, opting instead to drive back across town to Regal for a 9:40 show, thinking it’s better to kill time by driving rather than sitting in a theater.
Yeah, big mistake.
Apparently, babysitters were a hot commodity Saturday night and many families were left to do without. But instead of changing their plans and staying home, no, they marched on to the movies, bringing the little babies with them.
Thank you for that.
Sure, Baby might sleep during some of the movie, but when Baby wakes up – and trust me, Baby always wakes up during a movie – Baby won’t be happy to be sitting in a strange, dark room with loud noises, bright lights and 50-foot-tall people.
So what does Baby do?
Baby cries. And yells. And screams. And raises all levels of hell, thus making it impossible for anyone else to enjoy the movie.
Oh, and Baby can’t go it alone, mind you. No, once Screaming Baby No. 1 wakes up and starts yelling, Screaming Baby No. 2 soon joins the mix and so on and so on until it sounds like we’re trying to watch a movie in the maternity ward at Central Baptist.
I wish I had had something to stuff into my ears to drown out the noise. It’s too bad my stylist cut that hair.