#marine problems

Getting a haircut can be an intimate experience. However, when I was active duty, it was anything but. On Saturdays I'd walk into the barber shop (I went on Saturday instead of Sunday to avoid the crowd), sit down and say one half-sentence to them as they looked at me expectantly in the mirror:

"Medium-reg, please."

There was a nod of understanding and the barber did the requested 'do. The barbers on base aren't going to win any awards for hair styling, but at $6.50 it's hard to argue with it. They finish, you tell them it looks good, you pay and you leave. It's largely anonymous, unspoken and mechanical.

I apparently grew very used to this.

Upon moving to the Bay Area post-EAS, I found myself unable to cope with hair that's too long. Force of habit, I guess, but I generally get a haircut about once a month just to stay fresh. I found a local barber and started going regularly, it was a small business and the guy was nice enough. He liked to talk to you, he was the classic kind of barber that you got to know and care about. I saw him for a few haircuts, but I started to get tired of the small talk, I got tired of how long it took just to get a haircut, the pressure of figuring out how much to tip a friend. He was a great guy, but I really just missed the anonymous, sterile feeling of the base barber shop.

 As a Marine, you find yourself in the no holds barred manliest organization on earth. So little things like tact and chivalry are quickly shed when it comes to the basic Marine language of grunts, snarls, expletives and motivation. However, most if not all of our time is spent immersed in our own culture, which makes it difficule to "turn it off" one could say, when you find your self in town surrounded by innocent virgin eared civilians. While trying to keep up the facade of politeness, professionalism and resolve that civilians have come to expect, it is quite easy to end up royally showing your ass to the always scrutinizing public eye.

 Perfect example. Archer and I at the local Ihop late one saturday night.

Archer: Man, I can't fucking wait to go on leave so I can split some pussy like a mountain man splits fire wood."

Me: Shut up bitch, I can't wait to meet Mrs. Right and marry her face off.

 I can honestly tell you, that the sensation of several dozen patrons combined glare is almost tangible. Like so many tiny mosquito bites on ones face. I suppose I should be more concious of who I'm around. At the same time, guys like Archer and myself die so that you can live in a country that offers your fat ass five different types of syrup at-your-table that you can douse your lard lovers delight omlette in. 'Merica! Just kidding, that was all the faux patriotism I could muster for at least the next several months. Or until the next person tells me "Thank you for your service" and I have to stifle a laugh, imagining myself standing precariously on the top rung of a ladder in a ridiculous rubber apron, rubber gloves, bug eye goggles and helmet, pulling fuel samples from airplanes every morning. Yeah, service. You are welcome. I cant't wait to be another home boy back on the block.