Signs

So while I was back home again in Indiana visiting family, it became apparent that I was badly in need of a haircut. Since I was staying at Mom and Dad's, the best option was the one I used back in the days when I still lived at home-a place called "Mac's" down in bustling downtown Wanamaker. Mac's is one of those places you don't see much of any more-an actual old fashioned barber shop. It's the kind of a place where there is still a red, white, and blue barber pole outside and the inside is decorated with a combination of dust, old vinyl chairs, racing posters, sports memorabilia, and out-of-date copies of Motorsports and Field and Stream. It's the kind of place where they trim the hairs on your neck with hot shaving cream and a straight razor, and the only women present are the two gals (out of five barbers) giving haircuts. One of these ladies is wearing a T-shirt that reads: "What said at the barber shop stays in the barber shop."

I was expecting to get in, get out, and on with my life, minus 11 bucks and some of what's left of my diminishing complement of hair. But while I was there, I made an unexpected discovery. Apparently, my eyebrows need clipping. Now no one has ever mistaken me for Michael Dukakis, so this came as a bit of a shock, but there the barber was, clipping away. Suddenly, what I had mistaken for one of the last oases of masculinity left in Indianapolis was snatched away. I felt that perhaps I need a good manicure and a bit of moisturizer to go with my haircut. As soon as he was done, I paid the man and left. Fortunately, I took the boys to ride around on a Caterpillar skis steer the next day, so my overall testosterone quotient hasn't been too far diminished. At least I don't think so.

If having your barber trim your eyebrows isn't one of the signs of the apocalypse, I sincerely believe it should be...