Ear Hair

For a lighthearted look at aging from a man's perspective, I turned to my friend, mystery writer, and pharmacist, Don Weiss, for a guest blog.

Today’s essay can be summed up in two words—ear hair.  Of all the bodily changes that come with the aging process, why has God in his infinite wisdom granted us the curse of ear hair and its companion plague, nose hair?  I mean come on!  Sure we’ve gotten used to our hair gradually turning gray, our bodies sagging where they never sagged before, but really God— ear hair!  What did we do to deserve that?

 

As teenagers we coped with acne, gawkiness of limb, hormones going off the charts, girls becoming women before our very eyes, the promise and freedom of driving, and rebellion from authority. But we were uncertain about so many things, and we felt free to test the waters. We were becoming self aware like no other time in our lives  When we were young and part of the youth culture, the whole world lay before us. Now a good portion of that world lies behind us.

In our twenties we were embarking on our careers and beginning to raise our families. We had a path and a direction and we were still young. We were learning how to be grown-ups.

In our thirties and forties, we were in the thick of our careers. Our children were going through their own teenage angst, and we were thinking about approaching middle age. That’s when we started to notice some gray in our hair.

Pam's father, Walter Plumb

By our fifties those gray hairs may have outnumbered the brown, black, red or blond hair that we grew up with, and for many of us men, our hair had begun to thin. Our children were grown, and if we were lucky, were out of the house.  For some of us, the first grandchildren had made their appearance.

In our sixties, the uncertain certainty that we felt as teenagers returned with a vengeance. All of a sudden, nothing makes sense and the inmates are running the asylum. We find ourselves seeking out the early bird special at restaurants, we have absolutely no understanding of the music that our kids listen to, and our bodies are changing as dramatically as they did when we were teens.

Then one morning while performing our daily ablutions, there it is—ear hair.  ARRGGGG! 

The Boys Farmer's Market, Delray Beach, Florida

Prerequisites to Shop at The Boys:

1. Yoga meditation, to obtain a state of Nirvana before entering.

2. Steel-toed construction shoes (absolutely NO flip-flops or sandals) to prevent
your toes from getting crushed.

3. A large steel grocery cart (bring your own, if possible) to act as a buffer between your shins and the senior citizens (in town from N.Y. and hunting for quality for pennies) who use theirs as bumper cars. This will also allow you
to block the itsy-bitsy aisles so you won't have to try to pass the market's
mini-carts left helter-skelter wherever there is a free sample.

4. An appreciation of the martial arts, since you might catch FREE OF CHARGE a fist fight between a driver waiting for someone to back out and a newcomer who outhustles him for the same space.

5. Infinite patience with the cashiers, who have been trained in hand-to-hand combat and supercilious attitudes.

6. A translator to understand the myriad food samples the Mexican employees offer you inside.

7. A book of N.Y. slang expressions (with phonemes, if possible). If the visiting seniors TELL you to move your cart over, you will be able to understand them to give an appropriate reply.

8. An IPOD so you can disregard the previous item.

The Boys Farmer's Market is a permanent structure with year-round indoor market. It's been open since 1988, when the father from (guess where?) New York City chose the location. The sons have continued the operation, while next-door, The Girls Strawberry Patch (the daughters?) sells gifts and allows picking. At least the rows of strawberries are maneuverable there!

If you should survive the parking lot (do NOT park near the entrance!), you enter a space where 350 people are crammed into what should hold 100. It's a maze. To the right is the bakery, with mile-high cakes and pies, though no bargain! If you are tempted by a slice of their famous raisin walnut bread, you must pull your cart off to the side to sidle over to inspect. Suddenly you feel your elbow jostled and a white-haired couple wedges in front of you to shout their order to the clerk, who is still wrapping a dozen eclairs. Why are these retirees in such a rush? I'm a retired senior citizen, too! Where do they have to go but home, to reheat the prepared meals they'll pick up here - if they get through the one-way maze to the rear of the store?

BEST cheese, tomatoes, fresh-cut fruits, lamb, steaks, international foods, and killer fresh-squeezed juice!! But if there's a deal that seems too good to be true, check the expiration date. The package may expire in two days!

If you succeed, without bleeding shins, in reaching the lettuces at the far end of the maze, you begin to congratulate yourself. The golden fleece (cashier's counter) is within sight! But not so fast! You have now entered The Twilight Zone, where shoppers take on strange personalities.

At the end of each produce aisle is a five-foot open space before cashiers' counters begin. In this space, produce shoppers are making the turn to get down the next aisle. It is also the space where The Smugs (those who have finished) have taken up residence. Since there is only room for three mini-carts in each check-out line, The Smugs spill into each other, while the unfortunates still shopping must cut through them to the next aisle.

Choosing the right check-out line is crucial! You must count the number of items in both carts ahead of you and judge if the shoppers look intelligent (will pay rapidly) and can speak English. There is no retreat and no turning around!

On my last venture to The Boys (six months ago), a shopper had placed all her items on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, a hand flew over her mouth. "I forgot the wine from Argentina," she said and somehow managed to wedge herself out of the line to run off.

The Smug behind her (in front of me) spewed Italian. "Santa Maria! Non e possible!" She made rapid hand gestures and got louder and louder.

I was the last of the three in the line. There was no room to turn around to join another. The line for the next register was at my hip. I smiled sweetly at the Italian and shrugged my shoulders. I prayed the Argentinian wine was in stock!

The cashier glared at the inconsiderate shopper when she returned. "You have held up my line!" she lectured. "Next time, bring a list and a pencil!"

"That won't help," I blurted out. "You'll get run over if you try to read it!"