N 40° 23.114ʹ W 127° 59.464ʹ; 22.07.12

When I put out to sea,

To see what eye can see,

Something is moving,

And something is moving

    with me.

-- From “I Am An Alien” by &U&I

KayJay

I decided to get a haircut the day before boarding the Hanjin Boston.  As gorgeous as my lustrous locks had grown over the past year, I figured I’d better get a haircut in America, where I have some idea of how to tell the barber what I want, rather than wait until I’d gotten over to Japan or even China.  So, after donating the last of my camping supplies at the Goodwill Store on Broadway in downtown Oakland, California, I stood on the sidewalk and googled “barber” to see what was around.

As it turned out, the closest hit was Moler Barber College on Telegraph Avenue.  Having never been to a barber college before, I thought, What the heck?  Nobody’s gonna see me for two weeks anyway…

I get there and the place is teeming with young men, mostly black, most standing behind their respective chairs, some sitting in them, getting clipped.  A very tall and comely, young black woman stands behind the cash register at the counter in the center of the school, a single room with 24 cutting stations along the walls.  I later learn that she is the instructor, and is quite obviously in charge.  She accepts my payment of $7.00 and indicates that I should see the young man eagerly beckoning me toward his chair.

“I’m Kenny,” he says with a firm handshake, “but my friends all call me KayJay.”  (I know the spelling because it’s written on his clippers, which the students must supply themselves.)

We discuss the cut I want (really short) and where my part naturally falls (high and on the left).  KayJay has dark complexion, but seems to be the only student who is not African-American.  “Man,” he exclaims, “I’ve never cut this much hair before!”

“Well, get out the broom,” I say, “because you’re gonna need it.”

KayJay studies the situation intently, carefully planning where he’ll apply clippers and where he’ll do a scissor cut.  While he does so, I ask about the barber college business, an aspect of vocational training with which I have no experience.  KayJay doesn’t say whether any tuition is involved, so we don’t get into Pell Grants or student loans or any of that, but he does inform me that the $7.00 I paid up front goes entirely to the school, while he works solely for tips.  This was disheartening for two reasons: 1) it sounded like just another of the many scams that proprietary education uses to make huge profits on the aspirations of the less fortunate; and 2) I had just given all of my smaller bills to the instructor at the cash register.

KayJay begins with the scissors, meticulously nipping every last hair to perfection.  He cozies up to me so close that sometimes he’s actually leaning on my shoulder.  I think, Dude, you know, some guys are not going to like this…  But I don’t say anything.

We move on to discussing our lives, KayJay and I.  He’s only 20, but he’s been cutting hair for eight years already, taking after his father, who also cuts hair for a living.  When things in the neighborhood got rough a few years ago, his mom moved him and his six siblings out of Oakland, but KayJay’s back now to start a career.  He’s been at the barber college since February, so he’s about halfway through the nine-month certification program, which isn’t about learning cuts at all, he says, but all about how to sterilize the equipment and pass the exams.  When I tell him why I’m boarding a freighter bound for Asia in the morning, he says, “Man, I hear a lot of interesting shit in this place, but no one’s ever said they’re going to be teaching in China!”

With great sweeping flourishes, KayJay runs the clippers through my shoulder-length locks, which fall to the floor like autumn leaves.  Another student asks him a question, so KayJay moves over to his station to explain.  I say he “moves” because KayJay doesn’t really walk in the same way that you and I do.  I see now that his legs are extremely thin and misshapen, and he has to consciously place one foot in front of the other in order to move precariously across the room.  He hobbles back after a moment, leans on my shoulder again for support, and finishes the job, which we both agree is an excellent piece of workmanship.

I’m reminded of Eugene Dottery, my supervisor at PSI Institute, the vocational training center in downtown Indianapolis where 25 years ago I landed my first teaching gig, working with urban youth who aspired to get into the computer programming industry.  My first day on the job, Mr. Dottery made clear two things that I will never forget:

1. If you’re not 10 minutes early, you’re late; and
2. Every one of our students comes to us with a history.

You just never really know why someone is leaning on you.

Another Point of View

While at mess one evening, the Ship’s Mate (a Pole) asked me what I think of human rights in the United States since 9/11.  I’ll have to admit, I had never thought of it from that perspective.

Americans tend to see the post-9/11 life as full of annoyances—seemingly necessary evils—implemented in the pursuit of both national security and personal safety in a world overrun by terrorists:  gangbangers, drug cartels, pirates, jihadists—sociopaths of every stripe. So, after suffering the indignity of a full-body search just because you bought an airline ticket, who cares if a few people get their “rights” trampled on?  We’ve all been victimized by 9/11.

Personally, I think our human rights record remains tarnished, lagging way behind our ideals, but is not significantly worse in the wake of 9/11.  But then, I’m not wearing a turban…

Nevertheless, any real conversation on human relations in America will begin only when we learn to take our responsibilities—personal, familial, and global—more seriously than our rights.

Real Men Only Need Apply

Once in open waters, the harbor pilot leaves the ship via a litter that is lowered onto the deck of the first pilot boat.  The second pilot boat is there to pick him up should the pilot fall overboard during this extremely risky operation.

Bye-Bye, Miss American Pie

Homage to White Fang

I said farewell to a most loyal companion before setting sail last month.  White Fang and I were together longer than any house I’ve ever lived in, any job I’ve ever worked, and far longer than any LTR I’ve ever entered into.

Sitting pretty on the bricks in McCook, Nebraska.

When I drove White Fang off the lot in June of 1994, she got an honest 60 miles per gallon, just like the EPA sticker said she would.  This incredible mileage was due to several factors:  1) the superb aerodynamics and light weight of the Civic hatchback design and construction; 2) the variable-valve technology of the oversized VTEC-E engine optimized for frugal fuel consumption in the VX model; 3) the low sprung weight of those racy alloy wheels; 4) the hardest, skinniest tires you’ve ever had the misfortune to try to drive on; and 5) the national speed limit of 55 miles per hour.

Posing by the Rio Grande in New Mexico.

 While the design and construction of the vehicle would continue to provide excellent mileage, elimination of the last two factors would significantly reduce our mileage within just a couple of years.  First, the hard compound used in those stock tires wore very quickly, so as soon as I could justify it I replaced them with some all-weather rubber that could comfortably handle the snow and ice and hellacious thunderstorms of the high plains and Colorado mountains.  That cost us about 10 mpg.  Second, President Clinton decided we’d all suffered long enough with Nixon’s national speed limit, a law that inspired rock lyrics but very little in the way of compliance.  That cost us another 5 mpg on the highway.  Time and small town driving conditions would each steal another couple of miles per gallon, but White Fang always got at least 40 mpg combined city and highway mileage (except on those occasions when I would neglect her and let the tire pressures get too low).

Camping out in Chaco Canyon.

Still, I was astounded when we saw a whopping 56 mpg on our final cross-country run between Flagstaff, Arizona and Barstow, California (true, it’s mostly downhill).  And the good thing about LA is nobody can go the speed limit any more—no matter what it is—so we saw excellent mileage around Southern California as well.  Overall, White Fang turned in an impressive 49 miles per gallon crossing the mountains and deserts, suburbs and coastlines of the American southwest from Golden, Colorado to Santa Barbara, California, where we finally parted company.  She had sold on eBay for $3,165—not bad for an 18-year-old that had once been the second cheapest car on the Honda dealer’s lot.

Looking smart in Santa Barbara.

I will miss White Fang always, but I am consoled by the knowledge that she went to a good home in a beach community that is perfectly suited to her strengths. A storybook ending for a great companion.

The View from the Bridge

Skippers of little boats fear the open sea,

while captains of great ships dread the harbor full of little boats.