The Lion, the Witch and the Haircut

October 10, 1998


Many of us have talents. These talents remain hidden until, through true necessity, they are unveiled to the surprise of many whom thought they knew us. Sometimes though, it’s in our best interest to hide them. So it happened when my roommate was complaining about not having any money. I’m sure you’re familiar with the stereotype of “the poor student.” It’s a classic.
“Man, I don’t have any money. My job sucks, tuition is insane, prices are crazy…” and you know the rest. Having heard enough of his sniveling, I told my roommate he shouldn’t continue complaining about having to shell out ten bucks for a haircut, I would cut his hair. “You can cut hair?” he asked.
“And I’ll do it for free.” His disbelief vanished quickly and he was in a chair at once. The word “free” has a strange power on people. When mentioned around college students in particular, it can be very effective, as evidenced by my roommate’s neglect to ask about my credentials.
I love art and I consider hair styling an art. Isn’t it just sculpting someone’s hair? Like Michelangelo said when sculpting “David,” he just released the true form that was inside the marble already. When on walks out of a hair salon with a freshly cut mane, don’t they feel like a work of art? I think most stylists would agree.
I was one of the rebels of the hair world and my career as a hair stylist began with great controversy. Like most young artists, my questionable technique wasn’t completely accepted by a more conservative public. I was clearly ahead of my time.
My mom was in the shower. She had just strapped my sister in her high chair to play. When she finished showering she was going to give Anna a trim. I was almost four at the time, which would have made Anna about two.
Anna had beautiful straight blonde hair that went just past her shoulders. Her tresses were so pretty and thick even strangers would compliment regularly. This was a source of great satisfaction for my mom. As Anna sat in her high chair, I looked at the scissors on the counter and picked them up. Then, feeling inspired to do my mother a great favor, I asked my little sister, “Anna, want me to cut your hair?”
“Yeah!” she squeaked. That was all I needed to hear. I placed a napkin on her neck and sprinkled some water on her head, just like I had seen the barber do.
“What do you want to look like?” I asked. My customer satisfaction would be guaranteed.
“A lion.” she replied. My mouth gaped. Those had been my thoughts exactly. I could do that. I had seen plenty of lions on T.V. It is true bliss when stylist and client have such an understanding.
First, I’d have to get rid of all the excess hair. I began clipping off strands here and there. Anna sat very still. She kept busy by playing with the locks that were being chopped from her head. Cutting hair was easy. I wondered what took my mom so long when she cut hair. Anna’s hair became a reflection of my innermost creativity. With several more carefully placed whacks, I had freed her inner essence. I could almost hear her roar in celebration of her newfound identity. I felt like Van Gogh, although no ears were lost or nicked during my artistic career.
As I stepped back to admire my creation I heard my mom shriek, “Oh my God!? Aaron, what have you done?” I was at a loss. The scissors were still stuck in my hand. She didn’t like it. Now I was in trouble. What had been my heart had become my mother’s nightmare.
“Look at Anna’s hair!” she scolded. I looked. Long strands were all over the floor. A couple were still attached to her head. Apparently, I had missed some.
“She looks like a lion,” I ventured.
“Aaron, you cut off all your sister’s hair, look what you’ve done…” my mother trailed off. I looked again.
“Anna wanted me to.” I said. As if on cue, my sister proceeded to put on the performance of her life. She began crying and holding her head while staring longingly at the floor. I stared in disbelief. Never had I seen such a display. Every tear was a stab in the back. Having been betrayed by my sister, all hope of acquittal was gone.
My mom ended up taking Anna to a more experienced stylist who was able to make her somewhat presentable. I remember Anna wore a shag haircut for a long time after that.
Anna is 23 now and we are still close. Her hair is long and thick once again. She still receives compliments all the time. Once in a while though, I can still see the lion trying to get out.

Reach Out and Touch Someone

October 3, 1998

A couple of nights ago my dad and I spent about five hours upgrading my computer. While I saved about $600 dollars doing it myself, I came closer to having a heart attack and I think my blood pressure went up as well. Nothing gets me more frustrated than computers, although golfing runs a close second.
One of our problems was a small switch about half the size of a match head. The position of this small switch on the motherboard was the difference between my keyboard and monitor working. That discovery took about an hour. After a couple of other minor setbacks, we added Windows 95, putting the cherry on top of my sundae of circuits and wires.
I drove e home, excited to feel upgraded and connected once again. My 300 MHz processor and my new Pentium II motherboard would speed up my performance, and my new 56k V.90 modem would enable me to access the Net even faster. After all, if I couldn’t get on the Internet, I’d have to go to the library for resources.
It so happened that while my computer was down, I did go to the library, and I didn’t hate it. In fact, I met some friends there and we had a really nice visit. I got to thinking, is this what my computer kept me from? For a second I stopped and was thankful my computer had been down, something I would never say in front of my computer. All computers are temperamental and will lock up or “perform illegal actions” if they hear that. Does technology actually help my life, or does it hinder me?
We drive our cars past one another on the freeway to the automatic bank teller where we punch in the numbers we are recognized by. We call from these “cubicles on wheels” on our cell phones and leave messages on our friend’s voice mail. The more we are surrounded by machines, the more we adapt to our environment and become automated like them. We run around performing our programmed task to near perfection and empty our documents, thoughts and private things onto hard drives and walk out into the public with nothing to say.
We are losing the art of communication, or as my grandpa referred to it, “the gift of gab.” In an attempt to reach out to the world, we put more distance between each other. Instead of walking next door to speak to a neighbor, we call them on the phone. We receive a false sense of connection with humanity and are lulled into feeling we are more intimate, when in fact, we are being more distant. It’s no wonder as a society we are having increasingly more trouble interacting.
As we advance technologically, we regress socially. In Stephen Covey’s book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, he states, “Ten percent of our communication is represented by the words we say, 30 percent is represented by sounds, and 60 percent by our body language.” This means 90 percent is lost in e-mail and chat lines, and 60 percent is lost on the telephone.  or the Internet smile will never convey the warmth or sincerity of the one in person. And “lol” (lots of laughs) will never express the unique gift of laughter that can be contagious and lift a soul.
We still see remnants of people skills today, but there exist only fossils of what it used to be. We are still influenced by some past cultural protocol as evidenced by the emphasis to quit a job in person. And it is still considered rude to break off a relationship on the telephone.
My grandparents live in Gridley and I’ve called them many times. It has been several months since I’ve found time to visit with them in person, although it takes less than 30 minutes to drive there. I’ll be making a trip to see them this weekend. After all, there is still no symbol on the Internet for “hug.” Or if there is, I don’t want to know.

Minding Our Own Business

September 19, 1998

I am nosy. I have always been told that and as I get older and realize more and more who I am, I’d have to agree. I like to know what’s going on around me and I’m always interested in what other people are doing. When I was little, I would hear the monotonous refrain, “Aaron, mind your own business.” This statement usually came right as I got to the juiciest part of a story. Now I get paid for this, go figure!
As funny as it may seem, I wish more people wouldn’t just mind their own business. Last month I read two columns that helped sway me to this new way of thinking and impress upon me the importance of taking an interest in what goes on with our fellow man.
As the story goes, a 19-year-old UC Berkeley sophomore named David Cash Jr., who is a Los Angeles resident, merely watched as a friend Jeremy Strohmeyer, attacked a 7-year-old girl in the restroom of a casino near Las Vegas, police say. He did not try to stop or even report his friend’s actions.
The little girl, Sherrice Iverson, was then sexually molested and strangled to death, authorities say. For this crime, which happened in May 1997, Strohmeyher was charged with murder, kidnapping and sexual assault. Cash was charged with nothing.
What’s worse than the fact that Cash got of “Scott free” were his callous comments he made to the Los Angeles Times and while on a radio talk show. “I’m not going to get upset over someone else’s life,” he told the Times. “I just worry about myself first.”
To me this sounds similar to the comments made by Cain after he killed his brother Abel, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” I would like to think that deep down, humanity has the strength to be their brother’s keeper. Referring to Sherrice’s death, Cash said he was, “not going to lose sleep over somebody else’s problems.” On the contrary, he said, this incident had helped him get more dates.
My father gave me some wonderful advice when I was a child: “Aaron, never hit anyone first, no matter what they say to you. But if they hit you, defend yourself. If you ever see someone hit your sister or another girl, get ‘em.” Maybe Cash didn’t receive the same teaching from his father. If he had followed similar advice, he would surely have been the hero in this story and not the coward.
This whole Cash incident made me start to doubt something I’ve always felt to be true – that deep down, there is good in everybody. I’d always believed that people were inherently good. These concerns continued to trouble me and I thought about them while in a check-out line at Raley’s. It was there that I found an example of someone who did get involved with someone else’s business.
“Nyob zoo,” said the checker to a small Hmong woman in front of me. Never being one to mind my own business, my ears perked up. She smiled and said, “Koj puaf nyob zoo?”
I looked up to see that the checker’s name was Warren. As the Hmong woman left he called out, “Ntsib koj sai!” After speaking to Warren for a couple of minutes I learned that he can say “hello,” “thank you,” “till I see you again” and can count to 30. Warren, 59, from Paradise, is not merely in the grocery business, but the people business as well.
Warren can say some words in several languages and is working on Hmong. With the infrequent lessons from his customers, it takes him about six months to learn one word. Why all this effort? “Just the fact that you can speak a word or two helps you break down the fence of whether to like someone or not,” he said. He wants his customers to feel comfortable with him, no matter what their cultural background. “After all, what you cast is what you sow,” he said.
I left the store feeling much better. Maybe Cash will never sow what he cast, but with each new word Warren learns in his new tongue, my faith in humanity is strengthened.

The XRT Squirtgun

September 14, 1998

As I read the papers and see all the youth involved with crime, it makes me wonder how kids get their start. I’m sure before grand theft auto there must have been some small pilfering. What would happen if these kid’s antics were nipped in the bud at their first offense? My history of crime was relatively short lived, due to the timely intervention of my mother.
I remember the day well. I rushed off the school bus and sprinted across the lawn to my front door. I had waited all day for this! I glanced across the street and saw Joey fumbling with his key at the door. “Yes!” I rejoiced. His mother wasn’t home; she was at work. I pushed the door open and ran to my bedroom, stripping myself of all excess cargo, which consisted of my jacket and several papers for mom to sign.
I tossed these useless items on the floor to join the papers from the day before. I knelt down and reached under my bed. I felt the smooth stock of my wooden rubber band gun, and quickly pulled it out. I kept it loaded in case someone broke in at night. Joey had one just like it; we’d made them at Cub Scouts the week before.
I heard my mom calling me. I hoped she wouldn’t keep me long. I asked if I could go out and play. “With who, Aaron?”
“With Joey,” I answered. There was silence. Mom thought he played a little rough.
“Honey, I really think you should play with other friends, too. Isn’t Ricky home today?”
“Aw, c’mon, Mom. Just for an hour or two?!
“Oh, all right. But I really think you should spend less time with him.”
“Thanks, Mom!” I yelled as I hurried out of my room.
“I had a big blue rubber band loaded, the kind on the celery at the store. Blue ones were the best. My ammunition was ready; now I only needed a target. I quickly opened the door to see Joey crouched behind a bush near our porch. My eyes focused on Joey’s thumb as it pushed down on the clothespin – releasing a blue rubber band! I tried to duck, but the rubber band was faster. I felt a sharp pain in my eye. I dropped my gun.
“You’re dead! No one could have survived a blast from a super laser, especially right in the eye!” Joey exulted. I pulled my hands down from my face and looked Joey straight in the eye.
“You know the rules, Joey; no shooting at the face!” We had made that rule the day before when I shot him in the ear.
“Fine; we’re even,” Joey smirked.
We soon tired of this game and decided to go to the store. We rode our bikes past the irrigation ditch and around the corner. Joey was the first to enter. He went right to the toy rack. When I finally caught up with him, he already had a plastic bag in his hand.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s an XRT squirt gun; it says it can shoot 10 feet!” I didn’t think he could read that well, but the picture verified his claim. “Hey! We could play war with these. Then we could shoot each other in the face,” Joey said.
“Yeah,” I laughed. I stood staring at the price when I realized I didn’t have any money. I didn’t think Joey had any, either. He confirmed that when he stuffed the squirt gun down his pants. “Joey, what are you doing?” I hissed.
“Shut up and just take it!” he whispered. He could tell I was shocked by the look on my face. “Think of all the times this guy many have shorted your mom on change. Besides, it only costs 99 cents.”
I rationalized that he was right; and it was only a dollar. Joey smiled as I pushed the plastic sack under my belt. My stomach felt sick and I began to sweat. We hurried to our bikes and rode toward home. We were amazed at how easy it was.
We stopped at the ditch to fill the guns with water. After the first squirt, all thoughts of the stolen gun were quickly forgotten.
We arrived home and decided to play war at my house. We squirted ourselves until we were both wet. My mom came outside to water the yard. I ran to squirt her when I noticed a strange look on her face. “Where did you get that squirt gun?”
“Uh … I … don’t know,” I stammered.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she pressed.
“I’ve had it …” I bluffed.
“Where did you get that?” she repeated sternly. I could tell by her tone that I couldn’t get out of this one. She had caught me. I looked to Joey for help, but he stood there, terrified. His lack of imagination left me with no choice but to tell the truth.
“We took ‘em.” I muttered as I looked at the ground.
“Are you telling me you stole it? She shrieked. I could tell she was just warming up. Joey stood there frozen, his mouth open.
“Answer me!” she yelled. I knew it was time for the upcoming speech. My mom excelled at these speeches … they usually began with something about my being the oldest and how I should set a good example for my younger siblings. I nodded my head, hoping to seem attentive.
She sent both of us back to the store to return the guns and apologize to the clerk. Although she said she was too embarrassed to take us in the car, I think she wanted us to do this on our own. Joey and I rode our bikes to the store in silence. We were both too scared to talk. By the time we arrived, we were both crying.
We walked up the steps like criminals to a noose. Joey made me go first. We walked slowly up to the clerk and handed him the guns. We explained what we’d done, apologized, and told him that it wouldn’t happen again. The clerk was somber. “I’ll give you a chance this time, but next time, I’m going to call the cops,” he said. We both nodded our heads in agreement. “You kids did a good thing bringing these guns back. Thanks.”
We mumbled a small “you’re welcome” and headed for our bikes. I felt such a sense of relief as we raced toward home. The gun was definitely not worth the hassle.
The squirt gun lesson is one I’ll always remember. And I’m sure that Joey hasn’t forgotten it, either.

Parable of the Bricklayer

September 5, 1998

Once upon a time there was a bricklayer. This bricklayer was a master of his trade and was well-known for his skill and artistry. He had built several structures in the village and many of his fellows had praised his work. So many in fact, he was nominated along with some other bricklayers to build the town monument. A monument that would come to represent and define his small village.
The villagers came together and they cast lots. When all the lots were tallied most of the villagers decided this bricklayer would be the one to build it.
Many thought other bricklayers were certainly more qualified. These other bricklayers were better people and thus merited the honor of building the town structure. Despite the backbiting and hard feelings of the minority, the bricklayer was chosen and he set out to build it.
As he built the monument brick by brick, many people commented on the beauty of his work, and how deftly he worked with the mortar. There were some though, who came by and made remarks about the color of his bricks and the style in which he laid his mud. These people had no experience in constructing town monuments, nor any monument, but the bricklayer listened to their critiques because they were members of the village too.
Time passed and the bricklayer neared the completion of his work. Many leaders from neighboring villages came to admire the great edifice. The leaders’ opinion of the entire village increased because of the bricklayer’s work. They noted his skill that showed in the placement of the bricks.
One day another bricklayer crept up and put an anonymous note on the monument. This note contained an important and disturbing announcement. He had discovered that the chosen bricklayer associated with gypsies and danced with them under a pale moon. He had also been prone to drinking fermented vine juice during his late teens. With these facts brought to light, many questioned his integrity and his appointment to build the town monument. They reasoned that a man who would associate with such a group couldn’t possibly be a good bricklayer. People who danced with gypsies would certainly mix faulty mortar or use second-rate bricks! And what kind of role model would he be for younger villagers, drinking fermented vine juice!
However, one bricklayer came forward and voiced an observation to a group of his deliberating fellows, “If we paid as close attention to our own faults, there wouldn’t be any town structures at all.” There was much speculation among the villagers. Many of the other bricklayers thought he should be removed from his project. But when the group was asked for volunteers, there were none able to match the craftsmanship of its original designer.
Many of the villagers began to be swayed by the arguments of the disgruntled bricklayers. When they walked by the bricks seemed a little les red, and the monument a little less stable.
The village council finally got together and decided the bricklayer owned his fellow villagers an explanation of his actions. The bricklayer was notified of this and he agreed to talk to the community.
To this day nobody remembers exactly what the bricklayer said, except that he had admitted to his faults.
He was allowed to finish the monument. After all, gypsy nights and drinking vine juice have nothing to do with bricklaying.

Back When I Was in School

August 29, 1998

Last week my editor was dismayed at having lost the bus schedule due to a computer shutdown. I watched as she laboriously set up the entire thing. As she commented on the buses and the approaching school year, her verbal barrage sparked something deep inside of me. I remembered … my first day of kindergarten 20 years ago.
“Aaron, wake up!” I heard my mom yell. I sprung out of bed and went into the kitchen to eat some cereal.
“Good morning honey, would you like Grape Nuts or Cheerios?” said my mom, as she placed a bowl and spoon in front of me.
“Fruit Loops,” I replied, well knowing that we didn’t have any. My mother was the kind that didn’t believe in getting really “cool” cereals. “Aaron, you know we don’t have that. Now, you better hurry up and eat so you don’t miss the bus.” My sisters and I considered ourselves lucky if we didn’t have to eat oatmeal.
“Oh, all right. Cheerios,” I muttered under my breath.
“How come your new clothes are all wrinkled?” asked Mom.
“I don’t know,” I replied simply. I had learned that saying this would kill any line of parental questioning. They were wrinkled because I had slept in them the night before. I wanted to be extra prepared this morning.
“Oh well, run in and brush your teeth,” she said.
Mom seemed oddly excited about my first day of school. We talked about the things I would do, my teacher and what bus number I would take as she wet and parted my hair.
“Oh, honey, I think I just heard the bus!”
“What?” I said, as I listened intently. I could feel my heart lurch and my stomach become uneasy. A roar sounded outside as an engine began to wind up.
“Mom, I’m going to miss the bus!” You’ll have to take me!” I shrieked.
“Quick, grab your lunch box and coat. You can still catch it.”
“No, Mom!” I said as I was herded toward the door. I felt a kiss on my cheek as my mom yelled, “Run Aaron, run!” I felt as if I were trapped in a nightmarish version of Dick and Jane. See Aaron run, entered my head as I darted down the driveway.
“Run.” My mom made it sound so easy.
“Stop! Stop!” I screamed at the bus but the bus driver wasn’t slowing down. I had already run what felt like miles when I noticed all of the kids in the bus windows laughing at me. Their wicket little faces were filled with glee as they pointed at me chasing the bus. They might have even been telling the bus driver to speed up!
My plight had become their early morning entertainment. I started crying. I ran. I cried. The bus continued moving down the block.
The more I cried the more ground I lost in my race with the yellow canister of laughing children.
I stopped running. I dropped my Superman lunch box and cupped my hands to my mouth. “Stop!” I screamed, until I ran out of breath.
I stood there on the sidewalk and watched the bus as it began to round the corner. Suddenly, the bus came to a stop and the doors swung open. I picked up my lunch box and jogged to the corner where the bus had eased to a stop. I climbed into the bus and sniffled as I glared at the bus driver. He resembled a pilot with his slick hair and mirror tinted sunglasses. “Welcome aboard,” he said.
I didn’t respond, but to this day I thought I saw him smile as I turned to find a seat.

From Paperboy to Reporter and Points Between

August 20, 1998

My very first job was at the Appeal-Democrat in Marysville. I remember the excitement and the prestige of the calling. My peers would notice the spring in my step and hear the money in my pocket. I was 12 years old, and a newspaper boy.
It seems that 13 years later, I am still a newspaper boy at heart. The woman on the corner won’t be calling about her paper under the porch, nor will I be running into parked cars as I proudly watch a skillfully thrown paper hit its mark. Instead, I sit behind a desk and write about the happenings that go on around us. To understand me more fully at present, I’ll have to explain my past.
I was born on December 3, 1972 in Yuba City. A couple of years ago a poll came out that named Yuba City as one of the worst cities to live in. I laughed.
My mother was a stay at home mom who later went back to school and got her degree in English. She now teaches journalism, English, and yearbook at Las Plumas High School. She has always encouraged me to write and since the age of eight years, I have kept a journal.
My father is an electrician and so my family moved several times during my childhood. Unfortunately, these times coincided with some major points in my education. We moved at the beginning of junior high, and the beginning of high school. Needless to say, all hopes of popularity and being cool were lost.
My parents inherited a house in Oroville, one that had been in our family since 1927. it sits right across from Ken’s Paint downtown. I am the oldest of five children; two boys and three girls. With three sisters, my little brother and I never managed to catch a glimpse of the bathroom, but I could occasionally hear the whir of a blow dryer and catch the scent of hairspray wafting under the door.
Under the watchful eyes of Mark McKinnon and Jim Grosse I managed to graduate from Oroville High School in 1991. I am honored to be called a student of such wonderful instructors and only wish I could have voiced this appreciation more often.
Right after high school, I served as a missionary for the L.D.S. Church in Milan, Italy. I stayed there for two years and fell in love with its people. Italians are one of the few peoples who will tell you in all honesty that your complexion has worsened and you look like you put on 20 pounds. I took this lightly, but the girls didn’t see any humor in it.
I returned from Italy in 1994 and decided that I wanted to become part Italian. I’ve been back to my second home four times visiting families and friends. Italians expect these visits as part of common Italian courtesy. This courtesy becomes quite a burden, especially when tuition becomes due.
I listened to my mother and such, am an English major at Chico State working on a minor in Linguistics. Aside from the atrocious parking, I enjoy school and am looking forward to graduating and becoming an adult. I don’t know about the adult part, but I should graduate this year.
I have worked moving and receiving freight, selling useless knickknacks and have asked people if they “would like to Supersize extra value meal #7.” I have enjoyed working as a language tutor (French, Italian and Spanish) and in Special Education here in Oroville. I appreciate every experience I’ve had and thing that without them, I wouldn’t have anything to say.
I hope to have a weekly column sometime in the near future and look forward to interacting with this community and informing the public through my writing.
I hope to serve the subscribers as well as I did back in my early years with the Appeal-Democrat. If not, I’m sure the Mercury-Register has a paper route available. It’s been a long time, but I can still hit a front porch from a moving bicycle, keeping a lookout for parked cars of course.