A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS OR MORE

        Thank God for digital cameras.  Photography has come a long way over the years and with the much improved technology, even the most novice of photographers can manage to snap a decent picture.  Well, almost.
       Do you remember the good old 35mm camera?  I do.  In fact I saw one recently at my mother's house.  The ancient artifact was perched proudly on a shelf in her bedroom and was surrounded by those little, round rolls of film.  Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to investigate and see if the rolls had been exposed or not.  Of course, there is a reason for my snooping, which I will cover later.  Not entirely surprised, I noticed that some of the film was exposed, some of it wasn't, and some of it had surely been double exposed.  Thus, the story comes.
     I may as well cut to the chase.  Every single, major event in my life has been double exposed at the hands of my mother.  Now, to be kind, her heart was always in the right place.  It's just that she never promptly had her film developed.  So, invariably, she'd place an already exposed roll into the camera to capture that special event.  Maybe she was trying to kill two birds with one stone, but I doubt it.  There's nothing special about a photo of your son marching with a flight of fifty airmen during his Air Force graduation, while a ghastly image of his eighty-year-old grandmother hovers above in a lounge chair eating a slice of watermelon.  Another of my favorites also involve my Air Force graduation.  My parents, and sister had made the journey to Texas for the special event.  So, naturally, mom wanted to capture the excitement with lots of pictures.
     Several months after my training ended, I was afforded the opportunity to enjoy a week of leave from the military.  "Here, take a look at the pictures I took in San Antonio," mom gleefully said.  She handed me the little packet, which was stuffed with photos.
     I reluctantly flopped down onto the couch and allowed my mind to wander briefly to my high school graduation.  The picture that most stood out in my mind was one that featured me receiving my diploma from the principal, while my father stood nearby frying hamburgers on the grill.  Dad's cut off jean shorts, black shoes and brown socks pulled to his knees made that milestone especially memorable.   "Ugh, you did it again!" I whined.
     "Did what?" mom asked, as if she hadn't a clue.
     "Did what?!!! You double exposed the film again!" I continued.  I stared at her in disbelief.  How could she had not noticed the very first photo in the pile.  I stared at the snapshot and began to laugh.  It featured me, in Air Force dress, standing at full attention beside of my commander, a colonel.  We both smile proudly and looked very sharp if I do say so myself.  Sandwiched between us stood my older brother, proudly holding up a citation rainbow trout he had caught sometime in the distant past.  His hip waders and muddy shirt added a nice touch, but I especially enjoyed the trout transposed over the spot where my head would have been.  I continued to scan mom's pictures.  Thankfully, some of them turned out, but most of them didn't.    Another of my favorites was a shot of my dad and I standing together while our little beagle, Tippy, hovered in front of us with a chicken bone hanging from her mouth.  Oh my.
     A few years later, a local politician contacted me to request my participation in a local parade to honor the military after our victory in the Gulf War.  Naturally, I obliged.
     The float that I was assigned to featured a member of each branch of the military.  I was truly excited.  So, of course I wanted to have the event photographed.  "I'll take my camera," mom said proudly.  Immediately, felt the pangs of worry creep into my mind.
     "Uh, maybe Carla can take the pictures," I said, while standing in front of the mirror adjusting my tie.
     "Oh, I know what you're thinking.  I bought two new rolls of film and I promise I won't double expose these," mom answered as she dug through her little camera case.  Reluctantly I agreed to let her document the special occasion.
     "I thought for sure that I put a new roll in," mom said in a somewhat surprised tone.
    I stared ominously at her while she flipped through the pictures.  I was home on leave a few weeks after he parade and couldn't wait to see her pictures.  "Let me see," I said with a very monotone voice.
     The very first picture I looked at made me laugh.  Standing and waving on a nicely decorated float, stood a finely dressed marine, one sharp navy guy, an army ranger, and me.  Oh, there was also a baby, a gigantic baby.  She took up the entire picture.  On one end of the float her head rested on a stripped pillow, and on the other end it looked as if she was kicking the army ranger off the float.  I looked as though I was riding a pacifier.   My dad's foot was driving the tractor that pulled us down the road.
     So, thank God for the digital camera.  Now if I can only convince my mother to purchase one, maybe, just maybe, if I ever do experience another milestone, I can have the event documented without hovering pets, babies, angling brothers and dear grandmothers creeping into those snapshots.
   
   

THE 'ALMOST' BARBER

     I haven't been to a barber in over 15 years.  To be honest, it would be a colossal waste of money on my part.  Unfortunately, at forty-five years old, I have completed the entire process of becoming folicularly challenged.  I still have a fine swath of hair above my ears and around the back of my head, but from my forehead and across the top and down the back, it's a barren wasteland.  So, I cut what's left of my hair with a cheap set of clippers that are equipped with a guard.
     This evening, I was sensing the need for a haircut based on the fact that I had gone a couple weeks without a trim and I had also begun to resemble Crusty the Clown.  So, I stood in front of my wife's full length mirror and trimmed away.  As I trimmed, my mind wandered to the day years ago that my father pretended to be a barber.
     In 1975, I was all of five years old.  Jarrett, my older brother was eight.  My dad was old enough to know better than make a feeble attempt at being a barber.  Dad had marched proudly into the kitchen of the old house we rented and confidently placed a cardboard box onto the metal table in the center of the room.  "What's that dad?!!!" Jarrett asked excitedly.  He had raced into the kitchen and left me sitting on the floor of the dining room alone with our racetrack.
     Dad gently slit the packing tape which sealed the box with his pocket knife and answered without looking up.  "It's a barber kit."
     "A barber kit?" Jarrett asked, with his head turned to one side.
    "Yep, a barber kit," dad replied as he slid a shiny metal box from it's packaging.
     I arrived at the kitchen table and studied the package closely.  "What do you need a barber kit for?" I asked.
     "Well, Mr. Hilderbrand is charging way too much.  Besides, he shakes so much, it isn't safe sitting in his chair anymore. So, I'm giving the haircuts now," dad said, as he studied the assortment of attachments, blades, combs and other trinkets that were now strewn across the table.  He was right. Mr. Hilderbrand was the only barber in our small town and was probably years past the optimal time to retire.  My brother and I had left his shop bawling with bandaids on both ears many times.  Bloodshed was simply part of the whole process of having him cut your hair.
     Jarrett cut his eyes to me, and I noticed a very worried look on his young face.  "Who's hair ya cuttin' dad?"
     Dad looked at him as if he really didn't need to give an answer, but he did.  "Yours...and Neil's."
     My mom had entered the room.  She gently slid out a chair and sat down.  She was holding our younger sister who was around two-years-old.  She had a worried look on her face.  I had seen that look before.  "I didn't know you ordered a barber kit," she stated blankly.  Dad gave no answer.
    Jarrett and I stared nervously at each other.  We were silently trying to decide who was going to be dad's first victim.  "Do you know how to be a barber?" I asked, while peering over the tabletop.
     "Well," dad began.  "When I got out of the army I almost became a barber.  But I decided to go in a different direction.  But I read a book one time about it and I remember most of it."
     Again, my brother and I stared at one another.  Almost became a barber?  Read a book? I had read a few children's books about cowboys, but I wasn't about to mount a raging bull.
     "Jarrett, hop up here!  Let's trim that mop on your head," dad said.  Jarrett ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair.  Maybe he was offended by the mop comment, but I think he mostly was saying goodbye to his hair as he knew it.
     To be honest, I felt a little bit sorry for him, and that in itself was something noteworthy.  In those days I didn't even like him.  But, at that particular juncture I couldn't help but feel for the poor soul.
     Reluctantly, Jarrett sat on the kitchen table.  Directly, dad draped a plastic cover over the front of his body and snapped it together behind his neck.  To this day, the image of my older brother sitting there in that predicament ranks with the most pitiful sights I've ever seen.  Tears began to well up in his eyes, and he once again felt his hair.
     Dad plugged in his shiny new trimmer and pushed the switch forward.  The hum of the contraption wasn't unlike the hum of my industrial table saw.  Jarrett's eyes widened to golf ball sized spheres ready to pop out of his head.  "Dad, I don't want...!"
     Immediately dad went to work.  Huge swaths of hair fell to the floor.  Jarrett almost fell to the floor.  I fell to the floor and hid under the table.  Carla sucked on her pacifier and seemed entertained. Mom had a look of horror upon her face.  "Jarrett, for heaven's sake, sit still and stop fighting me!" dad growled as the hum of the trimmers slowed and sped up according to how deep they were in my brother's hair.  I slowly crept out from under the table to survey the situation and could not believe my eyes.  There was a bald spot along his left ear, and a huge chunk of hair was missing from just above his eyebrows.  The back of his head was worse.  The hairline on his neck had been removed and went from his earlobe on one side to an inch lower on the other.
     Poor Jarrett wailed and cried.  Dad just kept on cutting.  The more he cut the worse it got.  Finally the hum of the clippers stopped.  "Dear Lord!  He looks like he fell under a lawnmower!" mom shouted.  Carla began to cry.  I also started crying. I think my mom was crying. I wasn't crying for my brother, I was crying because I knew my time was quickly approaching.
    "Don't worry I can fix it!  If he would stop squirming..." dad bellowed.  Again, the ominous hum of the trimmers started again.  More hair hit the ground.  More crying ensued.  Finally, the kitchen fell silent.
     We stood staring at my sorrowful looking older brother. We stared at him like a family that had just witnessed a heinous crime. His head looked like a cross between Mr. T and Alfred E. Newman.  Tears streamed down his cheeks. My mom raced to console him.  I raced to distant corners of the house.  My mom looked sternly at my father.  "You are not touching Neil's head!"
     Thankfully, my dad's barber career ended after one haircut.  He did try to shape it up a bit, but there was no salvaging Jarrett's head.
     The following week, mom had to attend a conference with Jarrett's teacher concerning his unwillingness to remove a toboggan from his head in school.  When he was forced to remove the hat from his head, the teacher agreed that it would be best to let him wear it until his hair grew back in.
     I don't know what ever happened to dad's barber kit.  Occasionally, Jarrett would ask if dad still had it.  Surely he'd been traumatized and was fearful of another butchering.  But, whenever he would ask about it's whereabouts, mom would grin and assure him that he would never have to endure dad's barbering again.