Am I really that old?????

Today on my lunch hour I went and got a haircut. I went to one of those cookie cutter places; Super Clips or Great Cuts, or Super Great Clip Cuts, hell I don't really know, but it was quick and easy, and lets face it, it's not like I'm wow-in' 'em on the runway here. I'm a pretty simple #6 buzz in the back and sides and a little longer on the front/top. My "bangs" which start about at the top of my head get a little flip up. Easy Peasy. In and out in 10-15 minutes tops.

So I sit down and the girl, who couldn't have been any older than 22-23 years old begins to cut my hair. She makes a bit of small talk and asks me a few questions. Things like, trim up your sideburns, square or round in the back, is that short enough on the sides, blah blah blah. All good things to ask a guy whom you've never met and your working for a tip.

But then she asked me a question that I can't forget......


"Do you want me to trim your eyebrows"?

Trim my eyebrows? What the FUCK? How fucking old do you think I am? What do you mean trim my fucking eyebrows. I'll fucking punch you in your millennial face if you ever ask me that again. Fuck You, trim my eyebrows.

I sat there. Staring into the mirror, watching this young lady who was more interested in the conversation across the room than she was in cutting my hair, my mind flashed to the old town barber shop with the old men sitting around talking talking about yesterday's gone by. The old timer in the chair who's fallen asleep while Ed the barber snips away as what little hair he has left.

I thought today's youth she has no idea,..... I can't believe she.....then it hit me. Wait a minute......do I need my eyebrows trimmed? 

And that's the bitch about getting old. We don't even know it happened until somebody, other than our kids, calls us pops, or old man. Or asks us if we want our eyebrows trimmed.

I politely declined her offer to trim my eyebrows and we finished up shortly there after.  In the end I thought she cut it just a tad to short in the front, but I tipped her nicely anyway. On the way back to work I couldn't help but to check out her work in the rear view mirror, and I might have plucked a couple wild eyebrow hairs before heading back inside.

Motivation for making your bed

At some point during the day, week, or month, you’re going to run into someone you don’t know. A complete stranger. You see them at the store, at the gas station, or at dinner. And they’re going to remember you. And they will, at that very moment, hate you. You will be forever embedded in their mind as that asshole at the store, gas station, or dinner.  

I know it seems unreal. I mean, I never think of myself as an asshole to strangers. Family yes, strangers no way. I’m polite. I’m generally kind or pleasant. I’m not rude for no reason. But now this person, because of some unfortunate event, thinks I am. 

Yesterday was my day.

I don’t make excuses, but there was a disturbance in my force yesterday. Things were just not normal for me. Long story short, as we walked in to the restaurant for lunch my mind was somewhere else, and that’s when it happened. That’s when I became somebody’s "Asshole".

An old Navy Seal once said that if you want to change the world you start off by making your bed. Making your bed each morning gives you a feeling of accomplishment to start your day. Then it snowballs. One accomplishment leads to another which leads to another and another. And in order to change the world we have to accomplish tasks, and change lives. We start with simple things, sometimes mundane tasks but done correctly, repeatedly,  will change lives. Your life, along with others. 

I followed my family inside the restaurant. The line was backed up to the entryway and standing room was limited. As I squeezed in I noticed a dog inside the restaurant; service dog. It didn’t bother me, I just took notice. I step aside trying to make room as an elderly woman pushing a walker came toward me. Now in hind sight I should have gone back out the door and held it open for the lady, but again I wasn’t exactly focused at the time. I was thinking about the events from earlier in the morning, the dog, and the restaurant in general.  

A young lady quickly works her way past the old lady with the walker, shouts, “I got it, Thanks, and opens the door”. It was directed at me. She didn’t call my name say hey mister  or you there. But it was a shot at me, and It was at this very moment that I knew… I was her Asshole.

It bothered me, still does just a bit. I wasn’t being rude. I didn’t slam the door in her face or try to trip the old lady as she rolled by. I simply didn’t hold the door open for her. A small mundane task that has forever put me in the “that asshole at Fazoli’s”category. 

My Transgender Child...

I have written and rewritten this post so many times it's not funny. Not because I'm afraid or embarrassed. I see it more like that surfer who's waiting on the perfect wave, or John Cusack chasing a sure thing. I  want it to be the perfect post. But maybe that doesn't exist, so here goes. I'm not gonna sugar coat it.

My oldest child is transgender, and if that offends you, well then Fuck Off. Maybe I'm supposed to say my oldest child is A transgender? I'm not really sure. Either way, if it offends you, you can still fuck off.
About a year ago they came out to their mother and I that they were transgender. It wasn't a total surprise to my wife and honestly she's handled it much better than I have. I won't lie, it's been hard for me, but one thing's for sure, I love her, or him, or them? I'm not really sure. It's complicated.

But here's the thing. I don't need you telling me how I should feel or act. Or how I should act about feelings or feel about actions. I don't need you to tell me how my child should feel or act. I don't need you to tell me how to parent my child. I don't need you to quote scripture or tell me we're all going to hell. I don't need you to pretend it doesn't exist. Or that it's just a phase.  I don't need you to whisper when talking about it. It's not a disease that you're going to get if you say it out loud. I don't need you to post shit on Facebook or Twitter about Transgender teens or Transgender parents or parents of Transgender teens or teens of Transgender parents. I don't need it. I don't need self help books, inspirational quotes, or DIY videos on how to "pray the gay away". I don't need it. I don't need your drama, your sympathy, your prayers, your good vibes, your advice or whatever YOU think I need. I don't need it.

Here's what I do need.

I do need you to love my child. Not because they are a boy or a girl. But because they are smart, and funny, and original, and hard working, and caring, and emotional, and loving, and just a kid who's trying to figure it all out in a world that wants to back them into a corner. I need you to support them. To respect them. To love them as a person. I need you to prove to them that you're with them; that you're  on their side. This. This is what I need. And if that is to much for you, well.....