Nice Hair

It was time for another haircut. The heat and humidity of Houston's summers make me keep it short in the back and on the sides, but it's straight everywhere else. I've been accused at times of putting a bowl on my head and shaving around it. It may be a cheap option, but it's simply not true. That doesn't mean that I'll skip out on men's night at the local-national-haircutting-emporium. It's five dollars less than regular for the same cut.
I had time to squeeze a trim in between appointments. Now, they charge extra for washing your hair. I normally forgo the extra expense and the stylist/barber/hair consultant spritzes me with a bottle of water. It's ok, but I miss those days of having a lovely woman running her fingers through my wet hair. First they would warm the water, then cool it off, exotic mango-lemon puree shampoo next, then a brisk rubdown with a fresh white towel and off to the cutting.
The cut went well. It was a new stylist and she pretty much followed the precedent. I tipped her a dollar as I left and rushed home to change clothes. I hate those little hairs that linger after the cut though. They linger on my back and poke whenever I move.
I rushed out to my next job on the far west side of town. I made it early to check out the scene. Upon arrival, I talked with the coordinator who had no idea that I was supposed to perform for her after-school program. She agreed to split the classes into younger kids and older kids and to give them a good run around the playground before expecting them to sit for an half hour. The kids have been in school all day and finishing homework for an hour before I see them. Without a little exercise to expend a little of that pent up energy, they'd resemble miniature chaos bombs waiting to explode in my face leaving me with the archetypal black face and blow back hair.
The older kids arrived first. Normally, they're a little better behaved, but not today. They listened well to the stories, but during the activity they pretty much followed their own curiosity. One of the reasons I ask the coordinators to split them into thirty minutes sessions is because I can endure most anything for thirty minutes. If something is going poorly, it's only a matter of minutes before the next group.
The kindergartners arrived. The eight of them sat in a small semicircle in front of my chair. With the earlier group, I had been big and boisterous. I had forgotten to warm-up my throat and had strained my voice a little bit. I had another gig that night and I wanted to avoid hurting it any more. I took the around the campfire approach with them. I leaned forward and spoke softly. They leaned forward, their mouths slightly open, their eyes wide. Yes, I was going to enjoy this session. They participated in the stories and followed the activities well. At the end I showed them some extra string tricks. One of them involves seemingly pulling a string through my neck. I have to remove the brown farmer's hat that I normally wear out in the schools. I removed it this time and set it on my knee. One of the little African-American girls wearing a plaid uniform said, “Ooh, your hair!” in a sweet, amazed little voice.
“What is it sticking up?” I asked.
“No,” she said pausing. “It's... handsome.” Another girl pointed at her and giggled. She blushed for a moment and hid her face in her hands. I blushed a moment as well, finished the trick and donned my hat again.
After talking with the coordinator about the next time, I left. The next gig was only about fifteen miles away, but it was rush hour in Houston. The latest freeway construction delayed me and as I traveled, I ate scrumptious dinner of protein bars. At least, it would sate my appetite for the next two hours until I could get some food with a less manufactured flavor.
I arrived early at the school. They had hired me to tell at a parent's night in the library. Parents and children who had walked from the local apartment buildings had already begun arriving. The Vietnamese, African-American, and Hispanic children crawled over the primary-colored plastic playground equipment as their parents looked on. The front doors were locked still. I pulled out my phone to call the librarian. An office worker opened the door and let me in. She said, “The library is at the end of the main hall.” I wonder how she knew that I wasn't just another parent. Maybe it was the green and yellow Hawaiian print shirt, big brown hat, amp and microphone in hand. It gives me away every time.
The school was fairly new and was laid out with the library as a junction point. No walls separating it from the hallways, but it was sunken down. The librarian put me in one of the corners on a small set of stairs that led to the main hallway. A map of the U.S. Carpet for the kids to sit on and chairs behind them for the parents. I asked her how many parents she expected. “Two to four hundred. They support the school fairly well.” A little more than I had planned on, but I'm flexible. I set up the amp and turned the volume way up.
After most of the parents visited their child's classrooms, the principal announced that for the PK, Kinder and first grade would have a storyteller in the library. “Cool,” I thought. “I'm legit now; I've been announced over a school P.A. System.”
Quickly, the parents and kids poured in. They filled the carpet and the chairs. After they filled that space, they lined up along the bookshelf walls along the sides of the library. “Holy smoke!” I thought. This crowd was much more than I had expected. I had expected that people would just stop by the library, hear a few stories then move on. This crowd was on the verge of becoming a mob. The ones along the walls talked amongst themselves and their voices filled the open space of the library.
The librarian announced me and I began. It was going to be a Kindergarten show: lots of movement, lots of repetition, simple words, short stories. I could barely hear myself through the amp, a bad sign. I notched my voice up several decibels. I was unsure if I could keep that volume up. After about thirty minutes, the principal announced that the 3-5th grade parents would meet in the gym for older-student orientation. The crowd instantly dwindled to about a tenth of it's size. I continued unabated. Soon, I am telling to a crowd of five children through a microphone. Two boys have snatched up stuffed animal tigers as large as they were and begin knocking each other on the mat and giggling. Two girls joined in the fun with smaller animals to the same effect. I continued wondering if they've spelled my name correctly on the check. I finished the story and sit on the steps to show them string figures and tell them stories in a more subdued way.
Most of the remaining kids gathered around and we continue. It's times like this that the evil storyteller whispers in my ear, “Tell them something that will keep sleepless tonight. They're only in first grade, you could really scare them, probably permanently.” The more prudent part won out and I told them some Jack tales.
In finishing, I showed them the string through the neck trick. I took off my hat and lay it on the steps. One boy said, “Wow!”
“What?” I ask.
“Your hair.”
“Is it sticking up?”
“No. It's... Nice hair.” He struggled for the words in English.
Maybe I should have tipped the stylist more.
- posted by Brian Herod @ 8:48 PM