I went to get a haircut at Adolfo's Haircutters in Cliffside Park yesterday, the barbershop I have been going to for the past fifteen years. Adolfo's is a real barbershop. It has a swirling red, white, and blue barber pole outside, and you don't need an appointment. Just show up, wait your turn and read the paper or a magazine until it is your turn to get in the chair. I only have to tell him "short" or "really short." No complicated layering, styling, or anything like that. I just want a regular haircut. I use the 97-cent Suave shampoo from Shop Rite, and I don't use styling gel, mousse, or any of those fancy hair products, so there's no need to try anything crazy. Just a regular haircut. It's not as if I'm the Jonas Brothers or anything.
Each time I go to Adolpho's, I get a good look at my face in the mirror. I see the lines deepening on my forehead. I see the weariness that grows around my eyes. Some of these visits to the barbershop are better than others are. Sometimes I think I look old. Other times I am pleased that I seem to be holding up well.
My mother-in-law had a good complexion up until the day she died a couple of years ago when she was 62. She put Baby Magic lotion on her face every night before she went to bed, a habit that seemed to contribute to her wrinkle-free skin. So I started doing the same thing after she died, I guess as a way to fight off the wrinkles but also as a way to honor her. I put it on most days after I shave in the morning. I have no idea if it helps, but I think of her when I do it so it seems worthwhile.
After Adolpho finished the haircut, I grabbed the Spin magazine from the counter that had a 25-year anniversary tribute to the making of the movie "Purple Rain." I sat in the barbershop and read it. It was a lazy day with pouring rain, so taking my sweet time and reading about Purple Rain made sense. I then went to the gym for a quick workout. When I finally got home, Marcia told me the news. Jeff Schultz wanted me to call him because Byron Weld had died last night of a heart attack.
This kind of news never comes when you expect it, and the thinking doesn't always go the way you expect it too either. I immediately thought about the Prince concert I had gone to in 1981 in St. Louis with Ed Steele and Jerome White, but couldn't remember if Byron was the fourth person or not. I wondered if the meal he ate almost every night in high school--a quarter pounder with cheese, large fries, and a coke--had caused the heart attack. I thought about the last time I saw him, which was at the Jefferson County Jail in about 1988.
I don’t remember how we got close, but we both lived with our grandparents. This gave us a bond I suppose. The setting for our friendship mostly took place at the City Park basketball courts, Mount Vernon's melting pot. One picture I have of Byron is where his long, flowing black curls are drenched in sweat after we have played several games of full court basketball. We are both fifteen, young, strong and good looking and cannot imagine ever reaching middle age. We did not yet know that time is a conqueror that would eventually conquer us.
The other picture I have of Byron is a god-awful Florida Department of Corrections web site photo of him that I saw last year. Very little in this picture reminded me of my high school friend. He looked old, gray, and angry. His eyes were hollow and distant. The wide-eyed wonder of youth was long gone. His demons seemed to have gotten the best of him. I went back to find that picture again today and was thankful it was no longer there.
I don't care for sudden death, the kind Byron had where you go to bed one night and just don't get up the next morning, or ever again. I prefer the dying to take a while, to give us a chance to decide what we really believe in, make things right with our Maker, reconcile with someone, or do whatever we need to do. My Dad took a couple of years to die, and although our relationship would have needed about twenty more years to mend, his illness and return to Southern Illinois from California for his last two years of life did give us time to talk more than we had in a long time. Sudden death affords none of that.
I went to the barbershop Saturday. The lines on my face I saw in the mirror reminded me that time is slowly conquering me. Then Byron reminded me that time can also suddenly conquer us, and we do not get to choose. It chooses us.
Note: Tina, Byron's wife, read this piece and wrote to let me know that Byron had gotten his life together in the last couple of years and was doing well when he died. I was glad to hear his final chapter was a good one.
Each time I go to Adolpho's, I get a good look at my face in the mirror. I see the lines deepening on my forehead. I see the weariness that grows around my eyes. Some of these visits to the barbershop are better than others are. Sometimes I think I look old. Other times I am pleased that I seem to be holding up well.
My mother-in-law had a good complexion up until the day she died a couple of years ago when she was 62. She put Baby Magic lotion on her face every night before she went to bed, a habit that seemed to contribute to her wrinkle-free skin. So I started doing the same thing after she died, I guess as a way to fight off the wrinkles but also as a way to honor her. I put it on most days after I shave in the morning. I have no idea if it helps, but I think of her when I do it so it seems worthwhile.
After Adolpho finished the haircut, I grabbed the Spin magazine from the counter that had a 25-year anniversary tribute to the making of the movie "Purple Rain." I sat in the barbershop and read it. It was a lazy day with pouring rain, so taking my sweet time and reading about Purple Rain made sense. I then went to the gym for a quick workout. When I finally got home, Marcia told me the news. Jeff Schultz wanted me to call him because Byron Weld had died last night of a heart attack.
This kind of news never comes when you expect it, and the thinking doesn't always go the way you expect it too either. I immediately thought about the Prince concert I had gone to in 1981 in St. Louis with Ed Steele and Jerome White, but couldn't remember if Byron was the fourth person or not. I wondered if the meal he ate almost every night in high school--a quarter pounder with cheese, large fries, and a coke--had caused the heart attack. I thought about the last time I saw him, which was at the Jefferson County Jail in about 1988.
I don’t remember how we got close, but we both lived with our grandparents. This gave us a bond I suppose. The setting for our friendship mostly took place at the City Park basketball courts, Mount Vernon's melting pot. One picture I have of Byron is where his long, flowing black curls are drenched in sweat after we have played several games of full court basketball. We are both fifteen, young, strong and good looking and cannot imagine ever reaching middle age. We did not yet know that time is a conqueror that would eventually conquer us.
The other picture I have of Byron is a god-awful Florida Department of Corrections web site photo of him that I saw last year. Very little in this picture reminded me of my high school friend. He looked old, gray, and angry. His eyes were hollow and distant. The wide-eyed wonder of youth was long gone. His demons seemed to have gotten the best of him. I went back to find that picture again today and was thankful it was no longer there.
I don't care for sudden death, the kind Byron had where you go to bed one night and just don't get up the next morning, or ever again. I prefer the dying to take a while, to give us a chance to decide what we really believe in, make things right with our Maker, reconcile with someone, or do whatever we need to do. My Dad took a couple of years to die, and although our relationship would have needed about twenty more years to mend, his illness and return to Southern Illinois from California for his last two years of life did give us time to talk more than we had in a long time. Sudden death affords none of that.
I went to the barbershop Saturday. The lines on my face I saw in the mirror reminded me that time is slowly conquering me. Then Byron reminded me that time can also suddenly conquer us, and we do not get to choose. It chooses us.
Note: Tina, Byron's wife, read this piece and wrote to let me know that Byron had gotten his life together in the last couple of years and was doing well when he died. I was glad to hear his final chapter was a good one.