Beavers Chewed My Hair

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It looks like beavers chewed my hair this morning. I think I might look like this most mornings, but it looks particularly egregious today. Especially given that I have not been able to get a haircut for months. However, my long and unruly hair may not be so outstanding considering where I live. My wife and I recently moved to Port Townsend and as there are lots of older hippies and “artsy” types, hair styles are somewhat cavalier. Especially since barber shops have been closed for months.

I recently retired, sort of. That is, I’m not getting a regular paycheck from an employer, but I am no less busy than I was before I “retired.” I had always planned to move to the Caribbean when I retired. Warmth. Sun. Humidity. Rum. The same thing day after day. Y’know…the basic things for an older person’s joints and mood. But life tends to interject itself into life. As John Lennon once sang, “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” So I find myself back in the beautiful Pacific NW as a part-time caregiver for my parents.

This little town was inhabited by hippies beginning in the late 1960s and early 1970s, searching for a calmer vibe, a place to pursue art, music, drugs, and peace and quiet, away from the political strife and war protests of that time. My family and I had been coming to this area since the early 1960s and Port Townsend was a sleepy little town back then, with many store fronts boarded up but with the odd health food cafe, pizza kitchen, and eclectic bar.

The day after I finished high school in the early 1970s, I said goodbye to smoggy southern California and moved to Seattle to go to the University of Washington. However, I always gravitated to this town. To me, one of the best things to happen during those years was when the Hood Canal Bridge sank in 1979 during hurricane force winds. One short-term solution to get the hordes of vacationers and tourists from the eastern side of the Puget Sound to the Olympic Peninsula was to start ferry service from Edmonds to Port Townsend. If you’re a college student with family on the Olympic Peninsula, then you have struck pay dirt. A 90-minute ferry ride each way meant good study time, then you could get a burger and a beer (or two or three…you need fortification for spending the weekend with family) at the Town Tavern, pick up a 6-pack at the store at Four Corners, and then carry on to the family homestead.

Port Townsend has always had its share of dreamers, builders, raconteurs, and creative types. One of the things about having hippies and an artsy style in your town is that you have lots of options for wall art, coffee, and, it turns out, craft beer and cider. And now marijuana...legal marijuana. We’ve come full circle.

But, back to my hair…or what is left of it. My hair has its own yin and yang story. I’m fortunate to have genes that keep most of my hairs their natural color. That is, most of them don’t turn grey. But I have these other genes that help some of my hairs relocate to the floor or down the drain. So my hair is getting longer in places and disappearing at the crown of my head. Photos my wife takes of me from behind give the impression of a circus clown with normal colored hair.

It wasn’t until I was unable to get my hair cut earlier this year that I found out I had curls. No amount of hair gel, spray lacquer, or spar varnish can keep the curls under control, either. The curls start to force their way out and I hear this crackling sound as the varnish or hardened hair gel cracks under the pressure. At least I hope it’s the varnish cracking. Perhaps I’ll hear a small voice yelling “Timber!” as yet another hair falls to the floor. Which reminds me: I need to head to the local beaver pond for a trim.

Wishing you peace and happiness.