My Four-Hundred Dollar Haircut

Keeping my water glass full will warrant more than a twenty percent tip. Cutting me off at a singular glass, while not provoking me to leave nothing, will certainly affect the girth of your food service wallet. I've always wanted to be a waiter. The lady's sister thinks I'd be good at it because I'm chatty. Engaging in conversations with strangers is easy, I go out for gossip riddled dinners with girlfriends regularly, and look forward to chatting with my hairdresser Sarah.

Years ago, I had my locks lifted at Marshal Field's hair salon by a girl named Vita. Vita is a fortyish, stick thin, Italian girl with impeccable morals, and questionable taste in men. Not wanting to leave me high and dry after she quit, she offered to trim my doo out of her home. Washing my hair in the laundry room utility sink was tolerable. Sitting in a dank, decaying basement in front of a television that always seemed to have Soul Train on was tolerable. Being joined by her father or sister, who also lived there, taking calls while working on me, and having random visitors stop by and conversing with her while she was tending to my mop was tolerable. When she started forgetting how to cut my hair...

I have my grandfather's hair. A thick wavy, cowlicky mop that's hard to tame. Beyond sharing hair attributes, all the Dietz men share a similar helmet like cut. Considering my potential follicle fate, I make every effort to avoid it. Changing hair dressers is tough. The quest to secure a replacement is never a straight path. Thinking I might have been paying too much for my haircuts, I went to a five dollar Quick Cuts and was provided with a horrible mess that made me look like I was five, so I called Heidi's in the mall.

I had been to Heidi's before, seeing a punk skateboarding kid named Charlie. While I enjoyed his company and cut, his prices had originally sent me to Vita. The manager told me Charlie had moved on but that he could squeeze me in that same night. I don't recall his name, but I do remember his Cavaricci pants and the helmet cut I received that day.

Wandering aimlessly around the mall I stumbled upon Regis Hair Salon where I randomly selected Sarah as my new mop muse. Sarah is a cute, bubbly sort, who is guarded and sassy without losing site of her manners. She worked quick, cut hair well, and I got out the door for a reasonable price. It had taken four months to find a suitable replacement for pre-laundry basin Vita, but the wait was worth it; Six years later Sarah is still tending to my mop. In fact, Sarah is such a good cut that I found myself reconsidering how I tip.

Gratuity should not be a standard, set percentage for every service. Everyone knows what to tip at a restaurant, but what should you tip for take-out, valet, buffet, or hair cuts? After careful consideration I've come up with my own tipping scale:

Valet and bag handling: Two or three dollars
Take-out: Five to ten percent (on a semi regular basis and only if it's a place I frequent)
Buffet: Ten percent
Wait staff: Ten to twenty percent
Hair stylists: Thirty percent

Sarah spends nearly an hour on my hair, talking with me the whole time and deserves more than a server. Since my haircuts with Sarah are thirty dollars, she gets a ten dollar tip, which means I surrender over four-hundred dollars to her every year. Maybe I should just shave my head from now on and put that four-hundred toward an iPhone.

If I move I'll have to find a new Sarah. This would also mean that I wouldn't have her capable hands cutting my hair for the big day. If you see me at the wedding with a shaggy, soppy doo, please be kind.

Delusional or Hopeful

I find myself daydreaming often; I'm offered the Seattle gig over a cup of coffee while being praised for how well I interviewed.

Getting my current music industry job was simple. I knew a girl, who knew a guy, and I got an interview. Before the interview I was told "You pretty much have the job, we just have to go through the motions." Thirteen years later, I wonder how much effort, if any, I put into acquiring this job. For the Seattle job I've done test images, written notes on index cards for multiple phone interviews, and been very patient.

There is a fine line between being hopeful and delusional. For this reason my posts are confident relaying facts sprinkled with hopeful wishes, all the while knowing that things may not go my way. Here is what we know:

1) The job has been approved by the subsidiary.
2) The creation of the position is in the parent-company's hands, not so much so they can veto or approve it, but more so they can assign whatever parent-company attributes they need to assign, aka: Red tape.
3) I'm the only person that has been interviewed for the position so far. This privilege being mine before the position posted and any insider could raise their hand.
4) I've been told I made a tremendous impression on the creative group with the test images I created.
5) These test images helped solidified the case to create this position.
6) If and when the job finally surfaces from the red tape, I'm one-hundred percent positive that I will get an interview.
7) The position, while not necessarily being created for me exclusively, has been created around my particular skill set.

String these facts together and you have a bottomless bowl of hopeful soup. Originally I was told I'd be in Seattle for an interview by now. Notoriously slow, this process no longer brings out the anxious. I've found a sweet spot. A crumb of hope, born of facts, that compels me to remain excitedly patient. Not getting the job would be devastating. But as I've said before, I've been reminded how good hope feels. Even if it flirts with delusion.

8) The position has been approved. Mr. Web Editor will be posting the job in the next week or two, and looks forward to talking with me soon.

Six Reasons to Stop Jogging

I've gained six pounds since I started jogging. Then I lost three pounds. Then I lost four pounds. All in a matter of a few hours. My scale either hates me or is broken. Maybe both.

Progress needs to be measured somehow. I feel better being more active and I know eventually I'll look better. I haven't been keeping the dieting part of this plan completely in check; I've had a few late night snacks and some disastrous meals. Nipping all my fatty habits in a single stroke was a dream.

I skipped jogging the day my traitorous scale revealed itself. Getting on a working scale doesn't appeal to me at this point, but I know I must since my pre-jogging weight (determined by the broken scale) is probably wrong. Then I became ill and fell off the exercise wagon. Nothing sounds worse than running a mile when your nose produces non-stop snot, your lungs are wheezy, and you get dizzy spells. It's not like I needed a big excuse to stop jogging. Any little excuse would do. Apparently what I need is an excuse to jog.

List of possible excuses to jog:
1) Jogging will save on gas
2) If I fall while jogging, I'll probably break my hip and can stay home from work
3) Those shirts aren't going to get sweaty all by themselves
4) If the Earth can make a daily rotation, I should at least be able to jog up the block every day

The lady finds excuses to exercise much easier than I do. She's been doing some cardio aerobic thing daily, just joined a gym, and gets to the treadmill when she can. Although I wasn't bed ridden the entire time being sick, it's taken about two full weeks to return to one-hundred percent. Now the hard part: Getting back outdoors and running 'round town.

Bets are being placed on which me you'll see at the wedding. Betting on tubby me is easy money, but the big money is on the long shot.

Little Lao Lady

I thought we were friendly with our neighbors across the hall. She brought us sweets from her favorite bakery (which weren't very good,) after visiting her sister in Germany she would return with chocolates, and was always courteous to a fault running into her on laundry day. When she moved without telling us, our feelings got hurted.

As far as condo complexes go, this one could use a face lift. Our interior space is calming after a long day but the hallways with their brown burber, tan/yellow walls, and forest green accents hurt my designing, gay from the waist up soul. The worst aspect of recent remodeling efforts is the dungeon like elevator with fake stone linoleum floor tiles. We don't take the elevator.

Most of the tenants, from the seventy-two units, add to my general distaste.

Irv introduced himself by yelling at me from across the parking lot. My dog was on the lawn, which is a no-go according to the bylaws. I'm all for rules, even ones as lame as this one, but how about walking over to inform me like a civilized human?

One door down live the Kristovis. English is a second language, so conversing with them is ... well, awkward. When we congratulated them on the birth of their daughter, they assumed we were complaining about the crying and could not be convinced otherwise. The crying wasn't bad at all, especially since the child lives half of every year in Bolivia with Grandma because it's cheaper.

There is a couple we enjoy from 102 named Ken and Barb (guess what they substituted for a wedding cake topper.) Sharing a common age with Ken and Barb goes a long way for small talk, but no urges for social endeavors have arisen. Ken talks a lot, smokes a lot, and talks a lot. They work downtown Chicago and want to move West, increasing their round-trip commute to sixty miles a day.

When the movers arrived to move little Lao lady, we were confused. Nothing had ever been mentioned. That day in passing, we were told about the move by little Lao lady and how she would occupy the unit for a while longer since she still needed to sell it. A week later to the day someone else moved in.

While little Lao lady lied, we've already had pleasant encounters with our new neighbor. Her English accent is mildly mesmerizing, her daughter shy but polite, and when I found her car keys near the mail boxes she was overcome with joy. I hope her bakery doesn't suck.

Chuggin' Along

Unlike past interviewers, Mr. Web Editor is keeping in touch. While he had no real news to relay, his update was detailed, heartfelt and appreciated. He explained that this company is a subsidiary of a bigger company and the job has been green-lit by the subsidiary but not yet by the parent company. Once it is (if it is) I'll be flying out for an interview.

Originally, for the first two positions I applied for, I would have been responsible for flying myself out for an interview and any moving expenses. Not a problem for a job that makes me salivate. This new position not only produces salivation but also finds me emitting enthusiastic monkey noises. It's been hinted that I might not have to pony up for the plane ticket this time around. If you've looked into traveling lately, you'll know why this is exciting. No matter, I'd pay for that ticket. I consider it an investment in my future. Both mine and the lady's future.

Hating Your Kids

Every second Thursday of every month, for the last four years, I've meet Jill for lunch at Christie's. No confirmations needed, we just show up. Being farther away from the resturaunt, I'm usually late. Stalled by the semis in the industrial area, stuck at work designing garage sale signs for my boss, or getting a seventy-five dollar speeding ticket have been among my excuses. Today I was early. Which really means I was on time. Most importantly, I arrived before her.

Our friendship started over twenty years ago. I used to steal cassette tapes from her at Musicland. Somehow she didn't know, or didn't care. Once, I special ordered a Damned CD from her and was given guff for not buying it at a real record store. I'm surprised I didn't steal that when it arrived. Not sure how we went from casual mall encounters to late night coffee binges, but you'd often find us at Baker's Square, at midnight, spewing dramatic, useless teenage philosophy. When I say I'm not sure how, what I really mean is I can't remember. It's has been over twenty years.

Jill and I have never kissed. Which is strange because I kissed most of the girls I befriended during my teen years. It's probably one of the reasons we are still friends. Being one of my oldest friends, I'm excited for her to attend my wedding. She might not come now since her four year old isn't invited.

The Millennium Hotel is a remodeled Holiday Inn. It's been redone in a Frank Lloyd Wright fashion, with a bit more trendy club feel. As if FLW's cocaine abusing step son might have designed it. Originally we were looking at a large basement room to accommodate our guest list, but then we saw the fourteenth floor. It's the very top floor consisting of one long room on each the west and east side of the building. The all window wall of the west room provides a stunning northward view of downtown Minneapolis only one upped by the Dome room (connecting the east and west rooms) which provides a 360 degree bubble view of the city. One problem, the reception area accommodates only one-hundred and sixty guests.

We've reduced the guest list from two-twenty to one-eighty in an attempt to accommodate the capacity restrictions. To do this we've had to draw a line; Some single invites will be sent out, cousins have been cut, and invites restricting the attendance of kids.

Telling Jill her son can't attend wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't already told her the opposite and I have one more friend who is under the same impression. Not only am I not looking forward to that conversation, restrictions such as these are counter to my easy going overall attitude. I feel like a jerk. Will you still love me in the morning?

No Lonley Holidays

The lady and I don't have a balcony in our condo. When a friend invites us over for a BBQ we're there. Typically the forth is a no brainer; There will a BBQ to attend. This year a last minute invite saved us from spending this grilling holiday in-doors. In return, we are naming our first born after our hosts: Micheith.

Christmas is going to be weird if I end up in Seattle. Sure I'll come back, but my return will have a reunion quality instead of the familiar, warm, and welcome habit like feeling visits convey now. If I thought it was hard to see my friends now, wait till I move. Will my return warrant a group outing? Or will I struggle to catch ten minutes each with friends as I travel across the city in an attempt to see everybody separately?

I'm not taking the possibility of a move lightly. Actually, I barely comprehend what havoc a move like this will wreak on my friendships. In the end I know everything will balance out; Some friendships will remain the same, some will fade, and others will actually become stronger. I'm getting ahead of myself. There hasn't even been an interview. Well, besides that "casual one" two weeks ago.

I've done some premature Seattle house hunting. I'll most likely be taking a pay cut with this job and, similar to our circumstances in Chicago, we would like to live below our means. We'll probably be looking for another condo, this time in the city of Seattle. New or old doesn't matter. We do however have three rules: Top floor, washing machine and dryer in unit, and a balcony.

Our current place is a self contained cell with no breeze to speak of, even with all the windows gaping. For this reason, comfort demands the use of air conditioning if the outside temp reaches a blistering seventy degrees. Maybe a balcony wouldn't cool our place down any better but at least we could lounge enjoying the weather. Or maybe even have a BBQ of our own.

Till then we'll have to rely on our friends to scratch that outdoor itch. The forth of July invite did just that. The lush yard was soothing under my bare feet, the promising smell from the grill appeased, and the friends ... well, the friends are going to be missed.

Thrifty Contruction Workers

My boss Wayne didn't receive the nickname Wayniac because of an affiliation with Warner Brothers. He walks faster than anyone, talks faster, and even eats faster. Once at a twelve person business dinner, he woofed down his fillet mignon in four bites before the last person was served.

I've worked for Wayne for six years? Eight? It's been a while. In the beginning he wasn't an ideal boss. Decision making wasn't his strong point, but through a relentless on task approach, brought on by fail-proof organization skills, he has become one of the better bosses I've had. That said, we've never encountered conflict because he lacks a pair. I won't say I get away with a lot, because I do my job well. But the fact that I come in anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes late each day for the last five years without a peep, speaks volumes. Perhaps my seniority affords me perpetual artistic-type tardiness.

As co-workers become aware of the possibilities of the graphics department as it pertains to their job, they inevitably become aware of personal applications. On the clock I've made children's party decorations, birthday party invites, Christmas cards, and printed photos from hedonism. Yesterday, for the first time ever, Wayne asked me to make him a sign.

Wayne makes more money than me. He should, he's my boss. With this money he's purchased a house, out in the suburbs, closer to Canada than Chicago. Being new construction, every detail was obsessed over. Certain details weren't perfect so he's had the builder fix them over and over. With another round of fixes due, he's worried about the workers getting his perfect carpet dirty.

Keeping financial secrets is the fashion. I'm wary of sharing too much lest you perform some backward math and figure what I'm worth. While I'm not a millionaire, talking money is ugly. When the real estate bubble burst, Wayne's home lost ten percent of it's worth. In the same conversation he told me he lost forty-thousand. One simple math problem later, I know how much he paid and lost. He's potentially going to lose more if the builder sells cheaper houses in the hard to sell empty lots. That's why Wayne is hosting a community meeting concerning the class action law-suit in his back yard and again is worried about his carpet.

Being such a community leader comes with responsibilities. So when talk of a neighborhood garage sale came up, Wayne knew who could make the signs.

If I leave this job, in the manner and time frame I hope to, I will submit my resignation directly to Wayne. Since I probably won't be replaced, due to the record industry taking a hard nose dive into the shitter, it gives me no pleasure to think how this will strand Wayne without resources to get his job done. The pleasure I am afforded comes from a change of scenery, replacing one dream job with another, and not dying in this box of a condo. Still, I giggle slightly as I imagine a cold sweat on Wayne's departure pondering brow.

I Want My Dad Back

Olof is a Swede. He was a good friend in high school, a bad driver, and his dad is dead. Somewhere around senior year we drifted apart but I'm not sure why. The best I can come up with is that I found new friends. Friends that ran in the same circles as girls. Friends that introduced me to my ex. I should have stuck with Olof.

I met Olof during freshman registration. We instantly clicked, talked and joked during the entire process, and succumbed to the wrestling team recruiter before leaving registration. We wrestled on the team for three years together, rode our bikes for hours on long summer days, drove to school together, and played cassette tape loading games on his Commodore 64. Olof's sister was also one of the first girls I ever kissed, which made sleep-overs doubly fun. Until her mom caught on. Senior year might have marked the end of Olof and I, but our parents remained friendly. On a regular basis our fathers went to awful movies together. If you ever wondered about the caliber of any particular flick, knowing that these two planned to attend was an indication that it would most certainly suck.

My father helped my uncle move to Virginia last week. My uncle is taking his mentally disabled sixteen year old, and leaving Chicago behind in search of a fresh start away from their massage parlor (non-therapeutic/happy ending) employed ex / mother. During the five day move, Olof's dad succumbed to a slew of organ failures, went into the hospital, and died. Not being able to say goodbye, was hard for my dad. Having suffered a loss of a similarly aged friend weeks earlier was also hard on him. Knowing his father also passed at sixty-two, harder still. Sharing an age with this triangle of death is giving him pause.

One day I will know exactly what to say to someone who has lost a loved one. That day will regrettably come when I've experienced a surplus of death and am practiced at how to approach the grieving. Until then I'm comfortable ... nay, happy that my brain and tongue are at a loss for words in such situations. Consoling Olof's newly widowed mother, I had a clear sight of the casket as I struggled with small talk. All I wanted to say was I'm sorry and cry, but the small talk continued to trickle out. Running into Olof's sister after twenty years was pleasant. Mostly because with her small talk would not do. She wasn't devoid of social grace, but she was true to her feelings when she proclaimed, through a endless supply of tears, that she wanted her father back.

Never Trust a Hippie to Teach You How To Punch

Jujut-su class isn't going so well. Last week I had to yell at a kid because he was hitting me too hard. I'm old.

This is the exact Dojo I attended six years ago. I had done my homework to find it. Breaking cinder blocks with my noggin' was not my goal. I wanted something I could use. Something that, if necessary, could get me out of a situation.

I've been in a few physical fights in my life. Most have been during my early teens, when maturity prevents the words from surfacing. One time Chuck, a "good friend", punched me in the mouth after school. He was an alpha type and, looking back, never really a good friend. When I went over to his house, he would toss Chinese stars dangerously in my direction. While his intention was to scare, I'm not sure he would have been too upset if one caught flesh. Previous to the punch in the mouth, Chuck had knocked my school books out of my hands. Friendly teasing I thought and decided to return the favor. Later that day, as we walked toward our homeward bound bus, I saw my chance for retaliation and spilled his books accented with a giggle. Word spread quickly on the bus ride home that he was not pleased and that I was in for a beating. Moments after getting off the bus, I saw his determined knotted face getting closer. I set my books down, put my fists up, and was promptly caught in the jaw by his right hook. Teeth from my lower jaw pierced my cheek resulting in an arterial like spray across the side of my head and I went down.

Miya-Maru Ju-jutsu originated in Japan, but took off in the Bronx. New York is a tough place. The cops need an edge when encountering street fighting men, and this Dojo gave it to them. All the maneuvers are self defensive with an emphasis on controlling the situation there after. This control may involve breaking wrists, arms, and other bones to stop a fight. It was also good exercise.

Sensei Don was an ex FBI agent. He stood approx five foot four inches and was one bad mother-fucker. He wasn't unpleasant, you just knew not to f with him. Everyone had respect for Don. At the beginning of class you bowed with sincerity, and listened when he talked because every verbal morsel was important and interesting. Returning to the Dojo six years later, Don was gone. Only his business partner John remained.

The lady and I had the Dojo to ourselves as no other beginners attened. Having the run of the place came with the dedicated attention of Sensei John. Since John was a talker, this wasn't always a desirable scenario. As if talking to his kids, John would reiterate points in different ways and multiple times until he was sure the knowledge had sunken in. He told us to smile when we practiced falling, blocking punches, and throwing punches because ... well, no one expects you to smile doing those things. He continued making sure we knew that smiling was easier than frowning, it was relaxing, and that when facing an opponent a smile would send strange signals that would perhaps allow you to avoid a physical conflict. Whatever hippie.

John's babbling and unobstructed attention gave birth to an almost complete lack of respect. It is only one of the reasons we decided to take a break from class. The other being the lady doesn't enjoy or know how to punch. I like that in a person.