On hiatus

I've just started back to school and taken on a few more responsibilities at work. So until my work routine settles down a bit and I get back into the swing of studying again I'm putting this blog on hold.

Cautionary Tales

"I'll be dead soon," I thought. "I can already feel my lungs closing off. I should try to make it home and tell her that she was right and that I love her."

My bus stop for kindergarten was a block down the street from our house. Lest danger should befall me, my orders were to walk along the road to the bottom of our driveway. Here my mom and younger brother would meet me and then conduct me safely up our longer than usual driveway to the only safe place on earth--home.

There was an empty lot between the bus stop and our house. To my young eyes the overgrown lot looked like a mystical rain forest. There was even a narrow path that went from the bus stop to the top of our driveway and practically to our front door. It was a shortcut! Shortcuts made me feel smug and in the know. The long way is for suckers. I wasted enough of my valuable time in school. I wanted to get home quickly, have a snack and play with my Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle. Every day I stepped off the bus I had to choose between mom's way and adventure all the while thinking, "I bet Evel would take the shortcut. I know he would."

I complied with my mom's wish for me to take the long way home for awhile. Over time the path became irresistible to me. What would it be like to explore this mysterious place? It looked like a good place to hide treasure. Maybe I could map the area and even name it after myself. It beckoned me. It dominated my every thought.

After a particularly difficult day of coloring, painting and singing songs, I sat on the bus wondering if this is all there was to life. Oppressed by ennui, and at such a young age, I hoped there was more. I sensed there was more. I knew there was more. The forbidden path no doubt contained wondrous discoveries. I was already five years old and what had I done with my life? What would Evel do? Probably not whatever Mrs. Knievel told him to do. He did whatever he wanted and he did it wearing a cape! Now convinced that I needed to take more risks in life I said in a low and determined whisper not unlike the way Evel might say it, "I'm taking the shortcut today. Then I'm getting a cape."

It was marvelous and so much more than I could have I hoped. I even found a piece of a crashed spaceship! But I was hungry now and wanted my snack so I headed home. Maybe Evel Knievel (well, the little action figure that sat on the Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle anyway) and I would come back later. While I was exploring, my mom was having an adventure of her own. My mom's thoughts tend to go right to the worst. You may have heard of the popular version of Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. My mom’s interpretation of this law is a littler darker: Anything that has even the most farfetched chance of killing you will kill you painfully and messily. In her mind, it was a certainty that I was late because our school bus had crashed and was in flames and that her first born lay dying by the side of the road. She had to act quickly because long haired hippie freaks high on "the marijuana" patrolled our neighborhood looking for just such an opportunity to torture helpless children to death. When I walked in the door she was in a panic and on the phone to the school. She was simultaneously relieved and enraged at my appearance at the front door so I was given a scolding hug.

My mom used to tell me these horrific cautionary tales to secure my obedience. Her motive was love but her method was fear. If her stories were made into movies I would have been too young to go see them. Each tale ended in the death of the protagonist--a violent grisly death. If only he would have listened to his mother! The one she told me on this day fell into the category in which she was the most prolific: The "What if..." tale. The one I share with you now is the only one I have ever shared in public. The others are simply too ghastly.

"WHAT IF YOU GET BITTEN BY A SNAKE?!?" I forgot to mention that when my mom was in cautionary tale mode she spoke at a higher volume than normal. "THE POISON WILL MAKE YOU SWELL UP AND YOUR THROAT WILL CLOSE OFF AND YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO SPEAK OR MOVE AND YOU'LL DIE ALONE AND IN GREAT PAIN! DO YOU WANT THAT?!?" I didn't. So I assured her that I would take the safe way, better known to me as “Sucker’s Stroll”, home from now on. I kept my promise for two whole days.

"Tom?" whispered the shortcut. I ignored it out of duty. "Psst! Tom, come over here." I looked in the other direction. "Hey, Buddy, I had a great time the other day, didn't you?" it persisted.

"Leave me alone!" I demanded.

"Are you mad?" the off limits area asked sincerely.

"Yeah, you got me in trouble, Shortcut."

"I'm not mad at you. I like you. I want to be your friend. We can have a fantastic time together. I think I saw some more pieces of that crashed spaceship and there's a perfect spot to use your Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle in here." Oh, this shortcut was smooth.

I figured I would go explore a little bit, come back to the bus stop and then proceed home via the expected route and blame my lateness on the incompetence of the bus driver. I'm a dawdler by nature. I like to be left alone to go at my own pace. Time, as it so often does with me, just got away from me. I didn't know how long I stayed in the enchanted place but I had a very strong feeling that I might be worrying someone. A certain someone who liked to tell horror stories to children for their own good. Then I remembered a story that I had heard recently involving poisonous snakes and boys who don’t go home the way that they are supposed to. Now I'm scared and in a hurry. I started running back to the bus stop when the monster struck. I stumbled. My face plowed into the ground. A three headed snake the size of a moose had just bitten my left foot completely off and injected its deadly disobedient boy swelling venom into my leg. "I'll be dead soon," I thought. I didn’t actually see the beast because it took off in the other direction. It was just after school so I’m sure it had other naughty boys to go kill.

I lay there for a few minutes just waiting to sink into death wishing I had listened to my mother. She was right and I was a fool dying foolishly. When I realized that I wasn't dying right away, I started thinking, "I should try to make it home and tell her that she was right and that I love her." I pulled myself slowly and bravely forward with my arms. I sensed that I had more strength so I started crawling. Driven by the need to confess my crime before I died, I felt like I might even be able to hop with my remaining leg. I wanted to have a clear conscience in death. As I began to stand up, relief swept over me when I noticed that I still had my left shoe and all that it contained prior to the attack. The snake must have just thrown a big rock at me to make me trip. I was curious why the beast let me off with a warning but not enough to go looking for it to ask.

With my new appreciation for mom’s rules, I hurried the long way (the right way) home and found the wise woman and my younger brother waiting for me at the bottom of the driveway. She was visibly anxious because I was late and felt like she should explain what happens to little boys that just stand around by the side of the road when they should be walking directly home. I won't tell you that one but I am thinking about selling the story to Stephen King.

Peace through Fear

My heart was pounding. I told myself to be patient. Enduring the biting cold of the North Dakota night was part of suffering for my art--the art of fear. The brewing moment of exquisite terror enraptured me. I felt awakened during this comatose winter. The thought of the fiend’s bulbous orange and fur outlined eyes forever burned into my victim’s mind pleased me. I grinned malevolently. My sister would never forget. She would tell future generations The Legend of the Parka Monster.

One is not born a fear artist. The art is developed through trial and error (or should I say “terror”?). My seven year old nephew Josh is a most promising artist in fear. I’m impressed with the creativity and improvisation he possesses at such a young age. Josh and I were at the zoo with family when he disappeared behind a corner from his mother unaware. When his mom came near, Josh sprang his trap by jumping from behind the wall with his hands contorted like claws and screamed, “Mushrooms!” His mom pretended to be terrified and Josh started giggling. When I picked him up to put him on my shoulders I asked him, “Why did you shout ‘mushrooms’, Buddy?” He told me that it was because his mom was allergic to them. He was not satisfied with the clichéd “Boo!” but felt he needed to amp things up a bit. It’s funny now but you just wait until he learns what really frightens you. I tried to scare my wife the same way at the next exhibit by popping out with a “Shellfish!” but I don’t think she’s allergic to seafood.



My interest in the fright game came from the boredom that plagued me growing up. Oh, there was plenty to do but very little of it interested me. During one such episode of disgruntlement, I overheard a discussion between my mom and my sister. I was leaning against my parents’ bedroom door with a glass to my ear and I could just barely make out my mom tenderly saying, “I TOLD YOU TO CLEAN UP YOUR ROOM! ONE OF THESE DAYS SOMETHING’S GOING TO JUMP OUT OF THAT MESS AND GET YOU!” Apparently, a messy room is a breeding ground for monsters so the reason one should keep one’s room clean is to prevent a completely preventable death at the hands of the Messy Room Monster. Finally, here was something for me to do!

My sister always kept her bedroom door closed in the hopes that my mom would not think to look there for a messy room. Behind a closed door I would have no trouble secreting myself. I chose the big pile of clothes in front of the closet and I covered myself completely with the exception of my eyes. When my sister returned to her room after her “meeting” (well, it rhymes with “meeting” anyway), she dutifully started hanging up her clothes. I didn’t think it was appropriate to scare her right away given what she had just been through so, out of kindness, I waited for a few moments.



I decided that the time was right when my sister’s breathing had returned to normal and she started muttering angrily to herself things like, “When I grow up I’m never…” or, “…I’d bet they’d be sorry then.” As she reached down to pick up the next article of clothing I grabbed her arm tightly and hung on for dear life. Shortly after activating her air raid siren wail, I was treated to an adrenaline fueled ride to her bedroom door which if you’ll remember she liked to keep closed. She tried to go through the doorway without following the customary process of turning the door knob and opening the door. When she bounced off the closed door I figured I should let go because it is possible to take a joke too far. Once in the hallway, she turned and executed a world record breaking standing long jump into the living room and onto the lap our mother whom she had just recently been cursing. Clenching does not accurately describe the hold she had on mom. Have you seen the Alien movies? She was more like a facehugger on a crew member of the Nostromo.

The Parka Monster was my favorite improvisation and, like the Laundry Pile Monster, was a brainchild birthed while eavesdropping on my mom and sister arguing. While I was washing the dishes I overheard my mom ask, “HAVE YOU TAKEN OUT THE TRASH YET?!?” My sister in the spirit of honoring her mother respectfully said, “NOoooOOO!!!” To which our mother in seeing a quiet teachable moment with her only daughter sweetly asked, “WELL, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!?” I sensed an opportunity but had to act quickly because my sister would be stomping through the kitchen any moment to get the aforementioned trash. It was dark outside and my dad’s old Air Force snorkel parka was hanging by the door. There were some oranges in a bowl on the table. Perfect. I put on the parka and zipped it up all the way so that I was looking through a small oval shaped hole surrounded by thick fur. I grabbed two oranges and headed out the door. I positioned myself just at the bottom of the stairs on the path towards the dumpster. My sister was fuming while she was struggling to get the trash together and it was taking longer than it should have because she didn’t want to do it. As soon as I heard the door opening I put the oranges in the snorkel mask area of the parka and held up my hands and started moaning loudly.


With the creature’s vitamin C rich eyes in place I was blind so I could not see her reaction but I definitely heard it. Upon hearing a loud sustained tea-pot-train-horn sound, I quickly removed the oranges and that’s when time slowed to almost a standstill for me. Floating midair was a bag of trash tumbling gracefully. Oblivious to the law of gravity the trash was rather beautiful. Just beyond the carefree trash bag was the open door that my sister recently exited and was now entering again. Sticking out of this doorway but headed away from me and towards mommy was my sister’s left arm and right leg. Time resumed its normal speed with the trash bag spitting open at my feet followed by a quickly fading scream.

I’ve been asked if I feel any regret for “The Night of the Living Laundry” or for giving my sister Parkaphobia. I don’t. Blessed are the peacemakers. If you could have seen the way my mother and my sister were instantly reconciled, it would have brought tears of joy to your eyes. My monsters helped my mom and my sister see through their petty disagreements and focus on what is really important--survival. My sister in particular learned a new appreciation for life. I hear that near death experiences will do that for people.

Superman's Brother

I don’t like to brag but Superman is my little brother. I’m several years older than my brother. Our mother refers to him as a “blessing”. I’ve always assumed that by “blessing” she meant “completely unexpected mind-blowing surprise late in life”. I can’t reveal Superman’s secret identity because it would greatly hinder his ability to fight for Truth, Justice and the American Way if anyone knew that his real name is:

Jared Andrew McGuire

“It’s a bird!”

“It’s a plane!”

“No, it’s a caped kid in red and blue pajamas jumping off the roof of his house onto a trampoline!”

I took pictures of my brother while he posed in midair during his short flight from the rooftop to the trampoline. I was Jimmy Olsen to his Superman. One arm would be fully extended and his other arm would be cocked and loaded at his side ready to deliver a crushing blow to evil. The pictures are quite convincing because I framed them so that the roof and the trampoline where not in the photo. When Superman was a teenager one of my favorite things to do was to show these pictures to his friends. His wife now has my favorite picture of him in “flight” and I’ve heard that she adores it as well as the hero himself.

As long as evil exists, a superhero cannot be bothered with mere household chores. My mom didn’t agree with this and it was often a source of contention between her and Superman. My mild mannered little brother and I were supposed to be doing the dishes but instead little Clark Kent was wandering around the house wearing his Sunday best to conceal his true identity. To save Superman, because indeed only Bizarro Mom possessed the power to end our hero’s life, I needed to act fast.

“Who will save me from these evil dirty dishes!?!” I pleaded loud enough for the reporter from the Daily Planet to hear.

Mr. Kent disappeared into his bedroom only because there was no phone booth available. I’m not sure what he did back there but it sounded like he was changing outfits in a clothes dryer full of tennis shoes. In a flash, well about seven minutes, Superman appeared in the kitchen.

With hands on his hips the hero announced his presence, “What seems to be the trouble, Citizen?”

“Superman!” I shouted for joy. “It’s these evil dirty dishes. If Bizarro Mom comes home and finds them here she’s going to destroy Metropolis!”

“Have no fear. I will make short work of this fiendish dinnerware.”

“Thank you, Superman!”

With an “Up, up and away!” the Man of Steel Wool leaped (in a single bound, of course) upon a chair in a front of the sink and even in the face of dish pan hands started fighting against baked on grease. Every now and then he would utter a “Not so fast” or “Thought you could hide did you?” and even a cavalier “Ha Ha Ha” here and there. I stood nearby drying the plates and silverware that were rescued from the clutches of evil by the man from Krypton. Eventually lemony goodness triumphed and the city, as well as my little brother, was saved.

Did I mention that I was Superman’s big brother? Keeping this in mind will explain my behavior for the next bit of our story.

I tried to teach the Man of Steel how to catch a baseball but the ball must have been made out of Kryptonite because it hit him in the eye. It was either that or he was using his X-ray vision to look through the ball instead of keeping his eye on the ball. I assured him that he was all right and convinced him that he should try again. I threw the ball and, as is usually the case with evil Kryptonite devices made to stop Superman, it hit him in the eye again.

Later that evening, he was concerned that he might be getting a black eye. This would be a disaster for the hero from a public relations standpoint. Just imagine what the guys down at the Justice League would say if Superman showed up with a black eye. And the super villains? Forget about it—they would be merciless. The dramatic effect of landing in front of a minion of evil with your arms akimbo announcing that good has prevailed is lost when you’ve got a shiner.

I went to the hall closet to get some medical supplies so I could take a look at his eye. What I really did was get some of my mom’s mascara out of the bathroom and put it on my thumb. During the examination, I rubbed my thumb all around his damaged eye asking him if it hurt here or there or if I did this or that. When I had finished spreading the black makeup all around his eye, unbeknownst to him, I gave him the bad news, “Well, it looks like you are going to have a black eye.” Faster than a speeding bullet, he ran to the mirror to see how bad it was. One of the cool things about Superman is that no matter how bad things are he is always composed enough to say things like, “You’ll never get away with this!” or “What you’re doing is wrong and you will be stopped!” At least that’s what normally happens. On this particular occasion he freaked. I guess even a superhero needs his mommy sometimes.

Obligatory Big Nasty Dog

My friend Blake has a way with animals. It’s not a good way. The most docile of domestic pets turns into a frenzied death dealer as soon as they spot him. He’s not bothered by it because he’s not what you would call a friend to the animal kingdom. How can I put this delicately? Let’s just say that he has a very large collection of animal collars. I will give you a specific example of his tenderness for God’s creatures. Blake told his wife that her little dog, Daisy, will live forever and that she shouldn’t worry. I haven’t the heart to tell his wife how Blake plans to ensure Daisy’s immortality. He explained it to me, “If anything ever happens to Daisy, I’ll just go to the pet store, drop her on the counter and say, ‘Give me another one just like this one.’” PETA is probably out looking for this guy right now.

While Blake does not like animals he loves kids. He is a kind and generous person as long as you don’t have wings or four legs. He and I worked a church bus route together. This involved weekly visiting the homes of the children that rode our bus to check on them, talk with their parents, see if the family needed anything and find out if the kids would be riding the bus the next Sunday.

Every yard must have what Blake calls the “Obligatory Big Nasty Dog” and he can’t relax until it’s been identified and actively tracking on his radar. Fenced yards make him visibly uneasy. He looks for any sign of canine activity (i.e., a well worn path along a fence, dog toys or chewed up mail carrier bags). He then whistles and rattles the gate to make sure the coast is clear. If there was an animal presence, I entered the yard first. Blake talked to the folks at the door while I handled animal control. It’s was my job to keep the pet calm and away from Blake. I didn’t mind the job, in fact, I was quite proud of being a body guard for a six-foot, five-inch tall full grown man who had served in combat.

I came to know all the animals by name on our route and even looked forward to seeing them every week. One week while Blake was chatting with the McDoogles, I tried to get Mittens, their cat, to come to me because she was sitting next to Blake. Mittens wouldn’t come despite my sweetest kitty calls. I thought at first that finally there was one animal that was warming up to my friend. When Blake said his goodbyes and turned to leave I noticed that he was standing on her tail. The satisfied smirk he wore as we walked back to the car made it clear that it was not unintentional.

It is common for people to point out landmarks of personal interest to them. When we visit my hometown, I’m constantly pointing out to whoever will listen the places where I used to skateboard, go to school, where friends and family lived, or whatever memory pops in my head. Blake points out all the homes where dogs have bitten him and then tries to show you the scars.

Blake added a stop on his tour of dog bites when a regular rider asked us to invite their next-door neighbor to ride the church bus. We went next door and Blake did his typical animal recon, decided that the area was clear and knocked on the door. When the door opened we were greeted cordially and talked with the residents for several minutes before Blake abruptly stopped talking and, wearing an expression of startled discomfort, quickly looked down at his right knee.

It was the smallest dog I have ever seen. A Chihuahua would have no problem taking this dogs’s lunch money. I’m not sure of the breed but she must have been at least three quarters baby bunny rabbit. If I had to guess her weight I would say that you could probably send her first class with one postage stamp.

She came out of nowhere traveling at amazing speed. We didn’t hear the growl until she had already bitten Blake three times. Luckily, the crazed canine’s 0.5-millimeter fangs were not able to penetrate his pant leg. The only way to scientifically explain a dog of that size reaching such a velocity is for a combination of forces to be at work. I figured it was part animal instinct and part static cling.

While Blake tried to convey calmly yet urgently to the owners of the dog that their pet (for clarity, he pointed to what looked like earmuffs about two inches above his right kneecap) was attacking him, I sprang into action. With no regard for my personal safety and thinking only of the well being of my friend, I restrained the beast by picking her up between my thumb and index finger. This turned the dog’s attention toward me and the creature lunged at me and began licking my face and wagging her little tail wildly.

For the next few weeks I enjoyed teasing Blake with some dryer lint that I attached googly eyes to.

Some say that dogs are good judges of character. I disagree. For example, a loyal dog may attack an innocent person because of a command given by its master who has poor character. I do, however, believe that dogs know if you like them or not. This would explain why dogs try to taste Blake before they try to smell him.

What’s A Small Electrical Fire Between Friends?

When I was introduced to Ed as “The New Guy” on my first day of work, he was wearing a turquoise hat that was in many ways similar to a baseball cap except that it was the kind that was typically worn by a woman. Since Ed did not usually wear a hat, it instantly became the topic of conversation among the six-man team I just joined.

“That sure is a pretty hat you’ve got there, Ed,” remarked Bob, the oldest member of the team and perhaps the oldest workingman in the county.

“Thanks! Do you really like it?” replied Ed not letting Bob get the best of him.

I liked Ed from the moment I met him. He had an easy smile, a hearty laugh and a knack for being the life of the party. Some like to be the center of attention but they lack the personality to actually be interesting—not so with Ed. You always got your money’s worth when you paid attention to him.

“What’s with the girly hat?” demanded Chris.

“It goes with my shoes don’t you think?” answered Ed displaying his footwear like they were part of a showroom full of fabulous prizes.

Ed strung the gang along for almost an hour before he revealed the reason for the hat. Apparently during his haircut the previous evening, his wife had made some sort of tactical error with the clippers and in order to even everything out the rest of his hair had to be removed.

The way Ed handled the sudden and tragic loss of his hair led me to believe that he was good-natured enough to play a few jokes on.

I have found that with practical jokes it’s a good idea to start small. I started with Ed’s highly revered screwdriver. It was always with him and he wore it in a special holster on his belt. He could fix almost anything with it. He handled it like a gunslinger and named it Rosalie. While he was occupied with something else, I slipped Rosalie from his side and tossed her down the hallway that Ed and I were about to walk down. When he saw her lying midway down the hallway, his hand instinctively went to his holster. Perplexed, he picked her up, holstered her and gently patted her to let her know that she was safe now. We walked in silence to the van while he tried to figure out how Rosalie ended up in the hallway. He finally shrugged it off and we began talking again. I took and threw his screwdriver two more times that day but I was found out on my fourth effort.

While we were driving to another job, I once again took Rosalie from her place of honor at Ed’s side. When we arrived at the jobsite, I got out of the van first and threw Rosalie under the van to the place where Ed was about to get out. Opening the door and finding Rosalie lying in a place where he knew that he had not been that day made him freeze in bewilderment. His confusion induced coma was more than I could handle. I was leaning against the van and clutching my stomach which was the final piece of information that Ed needed to make sense of Rosalie’s odd appearances. He genuinely seemed to appreciate the joke and we both laugh about it to this day.

The success of the screwdriver prank led to other practical jokes: slinky-falling-from-the-ceiling, fire-alarm-in-the-restroom, exploding-balloon-full-of-confetti, etc. My favorite lark though was a series of modifications that I made to the company van that Ed drove.

Having an elementary knowledge of electronics, I was able to wire the horn of Ed’s work van to the brake pedal switch. He was typically in a hurry to get going so he would start the van and drop it almost immediately into reverse without applying his foot to the brake. When he finished backing out of the parking space he stepped on the brake and the horn went off. His hands shot up like someone just pulled a gun on him. It was a mystery to him how such a thing could happen. Ed was quite the shade tree mechanic and in all his years of working on cars he had never ran into this particular problem. He came back in the office to tell me about his bizarre automobile trouble and stopped mid-sentence to ask, “Tom, are you OK?” When he realized that I was not gasping for air because I was choking, he stood there almost paralyzed with his mouth open. I could see in his eyes that he was putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

There are a few variations of this creative wiring that I tried on him but they required some patience on my part. The horn-to-turn signal trap took a few days to spring because he would never use his turn signal unless the authorities were present. At last, we came to red light where a police cruiser pulled in behind us. Ed activated the blinker/horn. It’s hard to go unnoticed by law enforcement when your horn is synchronized with your turn signal so Ed just smiled and waved like he was on a parade float.

The horn-to-windshield wipers variation even surprised me because it was two weeks before we had rain. It was a light rain so he used the intermittent setting:

BeeeEEEeeep!

BeeeEEEeeep!

BeeeEEEeeep!

He was a good sport about the whole thing until he went to use the horn one day and an electrical fire started just under the steering column. The fire was very small and not even worth mentioning but Ed could be a bit oversensitive at times. With his hands gently around my neck, he explained that he felt that the prank had run its course and that if there were any more changes to the electrical systems of his van that he would wire certain parts of my anatomy directly to the battery. Discerning the subtle point he was making, I left off with my plans to integrate the cigarette lighter with the driver side airbag.

Toupee Flambé

My dad had shoulder length hair. Not on both sides just on the left side. The right side was cut short, above his ear. The purpose of this disparity between the two hemispheres was for a comb-over. I’m not talking about seven strands of hair carelessly thrown over to the other side that reduces the glare by a fraction of a fraction of a percent. This was the comb-over taken to a new level of absurdity.

My mom was a licensed cosmetologist and was by trade a hairdresser. This seemed like a cruel irony considering my father’s follicle impairment. Drawing heavily on her beauty training combined with a basic understanding of structural engineering, mom created the McGuire Comb-Over—the seventh wonder of the male hair care world.

The whole process took about forty-five minutes every morning and it was not the best way for a family to start the day. Almost all of the swear words that I know I learned during my dad’s daily transformation from a bald man to, well, a ridiculous looking bald man with immovable crunchy hair. A dense cloud of aerosol and profanity loomed in the kitchen in the morning but by late afternoon it ascended to the upper atmosphere leaving destroyed ozone molecules in its wake. When the “do” was done it looked like Ken doll hair only it was glossy black and the part was just above the ear.

My parents’ partnership in the “cover-up”, if you will, lasted longer than anyone could have predicted. It was becoming clear that, in order to keep peace in the house and leave an ozone layer to future generations, my dad would have to get a hairpiece.

It was an exciting time when the toupee that my mom ordered from the Beauty Supply catalog came in the mail. My dad eagerly sat down on a chair in the kitchen as mom read the directions for the magical adhesive strips that would soon allow my father’s baldness to go undetected. My siblings and I were more than a little curious to witness our father getting his new hair installed. The lights were off in the living room because money didn’t grow on trees nor was my dad made of money. I found a spot on the couch in the living room beyond the reach of the light that was flooding in from the kitchen. Knowing my dad’s reaction to my uncontrolled snickering would most likely be a bad one, it was as close as I dared get.

Feeling that she understood the fundamental principle of the toupee tape, my mom applied it to the wig and then placed the rug on the uncluttered acreage atop my dad’s head. I didn’t know then what I know now about men’s hairpieces: they don’t come ready to wear right out of the box--you have to give it a haircut. The one my mom chose to purchase was designed for those recovering from the sixties. My father, who for as long as I can remember had a limited hair supply, now was the spitting image of Ludwig van Beethoven only shorter. My mom cracked up first, which was just the diversion I needed to giggle my way to the safety of my room.

During that long evening, my parents alternated between laughing and fighting until every last trace of the ghost of Beethoven’s hair had been trimmed away. My dad was so pleased with the final product that he called us all in for a “Well, what do you think?” It was a step up from the insanity of the comb-over so I could truly say that it looked better (which was exactly what I was expected to say).

My mom taught my dad about the tape, showed him where to buy it and how to wash and maintain his toupee and eventually he took full responsibility for the care and feeding of it. The upkeep of my dad’s cranium carpeting was endless and it began to wear on him. Late one Saturday he realized that he hadn’t washed his “hair” yet. It was getting on in the evening so he would have to act immediately if he was going to look his Sunday best for church in the morning. In an effort to speed up the shampoo-dry-set-style cycle, he decided that he would lay his freshly washed hair matt on the upper edge of the lampshade. He then sat down to watch TV and waited for the hair to dry so he could move into the styling phase.

It’s always been a mystery to me how the next event happened. My best guess is that as the piece was drying the change in weight caused by the evaporating water set the wig in motion.

“Is something burning?” my sister asked.

In a normal household this would cause some alarm but at ours the question was asked several times a day. My mom was a little paranoid about the house burning down, or burglars breaking in or (after attending a prophecy revival at church) the minions of Hell hiding in our towel closet.

“I smell it too,” I said.

Two reports of a burning smell (and neither of them from mom) was at least enough for my dad to investigate. He sniffed and quickly looked in horror towards the lampshade—his hair wasn’t there! Without regard for his personal safety, he plunged his hand though the top opening of the lampshade and rescued the smoldering toupee from the three hundred watt inferno. He quickly began his damage assessment only to discover that his hairpiece was more than a little melted—it was, in fact, on fire. Thinking quickly, he dropped it to the floor and snuffed it out by cussing it and stomping on it. He picked up what appeared to be a hedgehog tragically killed in a fiery runaway steamroller accident. I did not witness the rest because when I saw my dad standing in shock cradling a lifeless smoking body of hair, I knew I had to leave. I could sense my sister was on the verge of saying something like, “Hey Dad, your hair’s looking pretty hot tonight!” which would make me laugh and get me killed before I ever had a chance to go out on my first date.

Dad wore a hat for the next two to four weeks until his replacement ego arrived.

Admittedly there have been some amazing advancements in toupee technology but it still doesn’t look right to me for a bald man to wear hair. The bald man knows he’s bald and the people looking at his wig know that he’s bald—why play the foolish little game anyway? I’ve never looked at a man and laughed at him because he was bald or even though he was odd looking; however, I almost always point out a man wearing a hairpiece.

I went to a hockey game where the fans were each given a flashlight. When the lights went down just before game time someone pointed out, using their newly acquired flashlight, a man with obvious faux hair. Soon hundreds of flashlights were trained on this man who was only trying to blend in.

It strikes me as funny that the toupee wearer thinks they are fooling anyone. I’ve heard some men say, “I only wear it for myself.” Oh, really? Unless he’s walking around with a mirror in his hands all the time he can’t see his hair and there have got to be more efficient and less expensive ways to keep your head warm. For all practical purposes it’s a very silly hat glued to the top of his head. The only explanation that satisfies me is that men are capable of a vanity that dwarfs the kind they accuse women of having. I don’t know if “bald is beautiful” but I do know that toupees are not. Besides, pretending to be someone you’re not never has brought anyone happiness.