Not So Deep Thoughts… In These Tumultuous Times

In the wake of disaster, Equanimity and Grace are the key to healing.

— Jack Sarmiento, 2016, “Late Evening Musings from the Newsroom”

“Go get a trim at that Interstate Hairdressers place,” my Dad barked as he shuffled out with our unkempt Shih Tzu, Huckleberry. “Here’s ten bucks. Mom and I are taking your little brother for a walk.”

He meant International Haircutters, the dowdy shop located in the basement of our apartment building,

Brows furrowing, I fiddled with the gold-backed note. Up until that point, we had always planned father-son days where we would visit our favorite Chelsea barbershop and assert: one-half on the sides—a little bit off the top.

Clutching the note to my chest, I scampered down to International Haircutters. Plopping down in one of the worn-leather seats, I discussed my request with the Lady Behind the Chair.

A ceiling light sputtered out with a grating hiss, relieved to be free of the musty environment. This went unnoticed by the Lady, who was intent on bobbing her head and reassuring me with her toothless smile.

Hoping I had conveyed my tried-and-true hairdo, I removed my glasses. Without them, I can scarcely see the tip of my nose. As I closed my eyes, the familiar buzz of clippers resonated in my ears.

It was then that the Lady Behind the Chair proceeded to attack me with her merciless hands. With wanton movements, she whipped my head back and forth. In seconds, my scalp felt unusually exposed.

Lifting my glasses from the side table, I slid them on. Oh boy.

I rubbed my head, which was now spick and span as the head of a Buddhist monk having just undergone the ritual head-shaving of the ordination ceremony. In disbelief, I rubbed it again, hoping some magical genie would emerge to resuscitate my fallen follicles.

Thrusting ten bucks into her hand, I stormed out and began composing a lecture for my Dad. Craving conflict, I bore back a smoldering rancor.

As I neared our doorstep, I heard the joyful squeak of a tennis ball and the skittering of nails on hardwood floors. Huckleberry and my parents were home.

So, for the sake of family, I chose to refrain from unleashing blame upon my hapless Dad. I chose to keep my composure despite having lost my head.

My only remedy would be Time.

It took four months for my hair to grow back.

This election will take a minimum of four years.

Exercise Equanimity, Jack. Exercise Grace.

And forward we go.