Husker Maniacs

We went for haircuts Saturday afternoon in the middle of the third quarter of the football game in Lincoln. As I settled into the chair, I asked my beautician how she was. "I am depressed, very sad and kind of angry," she said. I didn't make the connection to the game until too late. I should have gotten up and said I would come back another day...but then He Who Must Be Obeyed was in the next chair telling his person not to mess up his comb over.

"I just want the edges trimmed," I told V. She probably didn't hear me nor did she care. Transparency is the hazard we older INFP's deal with. I haven't learned how to navigate those waters yet and I spend more time than I like with the results of it.

She handed me back my glasses as she whisked the last of the clippings down my shirt; in her depression, she not only trimmed the edges, she nearly scalped me. I am not even a football fan, geeky me, in this society of depressed Nebraskans who are bemoaning the team, the coaches and the administrators who profiteer from all of it.

It will take me six weeks to get over this last game. V. will never see my white head again. I have had very bad luck with hair cutters. The last one scammed me out of several hundred dollars, the last time I saw her was as she left my living room with a check for $250 for her latest emergency. She was going to pay me back the next day.

I am a darned fool and maybe I will let my hair grow and wear it in nice bun like my own Mummu did.