It’s Going to be a Cruel, Cruel Summer

I trust in Nature for the stable laws
Of beauty and utility that Spring shall plant.

- Robert Browning, A Soul’s Tragedy

Ahhh, the arrival of Spring. And with it, bright eyes, bushy tails, and short shorts. The coming attraction before the feature presentation that is Summer. Men revel in the apparent rebelliousness that accompanies the wearing of flip-flops (or thongs, as we fancy boys prefer to call them) and women gracefully strut their stuff in white linen pants as the rebels battle one another for the privilege to drool over these maidens of warm weather. The makings of this year’s charade are already in place; increased patronage at tanning salons (for the Caucasoids in attendance), the absurd notion of a low-carb beer now commonplace, and youngsters nationwide primping their Chia heads for that chic summer hairdo. Having bucked the system on all three of the above issues, two out of flawed principles and the other out of sheer bad luck (or would it be shear?), CmcD will be condemned to a behind-the-scenes role in this summer’s blockbusters. The Dolly Grip in a production of Frankie Does Hollywood…I get to watch the action, and at times contribute, but never a starring role.

Firstly, may I side with Malcolm X and other radical black orators of the past and present in saying that The Man (heretofore referred to as White people) and his pursuit of a darker complexion serves as a perfect example of hypocrisy. Forget the fact that it takes me at least three beach sessions enduring third-degree burns before I can start to shed one of the many curses troubling peoples of Irish descent, that being unhealthy, pale skin pigmentation. Obviously, tanning salons and anything under an SPF rating of 30 serve no purpose in the life of a bigheaded, pale, and despondent man with roots tracing back to an island predicated on the ideals of skullduggery and inebriation.

This leads us to CmcD’s second soon-to-be summer gaffe…of and relating to the Atkins’ Diet, South Beach Diet, and anything relatively devoid of carbohydrates (or as I term them, tasty treats). Being a vegetarian, I have already eliminated the core components endorsed by the carb-counting brainwashed masses who prey to idols of Dr. Atkins and Jared the Subway Nerd. My other distinctive nutritional personality, that of a raging alcoholic, realizes that a Bud Light to begin the night is a sensible thing (perhaps even an Aspen Extreme or whatever those new Gatorade-like endorsed “healthy beers” are called). But when 4am rears its ugly head and your own ugly head is sweating profusely and babbling in foreign tongues, sensibilities are the last item on the menu…somehow, Guinness, Sierra Nevada, and Hoegaarden are listed at the top of this same proverbial menu. Needless to say, without a subscription to Flex Magazine or the narcissism to spend hours in the gym (or even the mental drive to engage in healthy exercise), I won’t be squeezing into any skimpy two pieces this bikini season.

Finally, what was once my source of power is currently no more. Much like Samson, my magical locks were my last reprieve before eternal social damnation. Having recently shorn a six-month mullet (which I had pompously carried like a pregnant mother) in favor of the standard issue man-cut of contemporary corporate America (I needn’t explain in detail), I had my opportunity to fall in line with the masses and continue along the path towards poontang. It’s sad to think that one afternoon and a silly old broad was all it took to sentence me to what Bananarama appropriately termed, a “Cruel Summer.” Please allow me to paint the horrific picture…I was at one time a regular at the white trash depot known as Super Cuts, but after having seen the light (actually the significant gap between my hairdresser’s two remaining teeth) I played the free agent market and settled upon the upscale Super Cuts, Jean Louis David. I assume the idea behind it was that you slap a French name on something shitty and it instantly becomes somewhat respectable (that must also explain the successes of Gerard Depardieu and Cirque du Soleil). So, as the story goes, I received one decent man-cut at JLD and, being that I’m a hair salon slut, I was hooked. I never thought they would chew me up and spit me out so soon.

And so goes CmcD's final follicle
of dignity

My next man-cut was to be last Friday and it was proceeding as scheduled with a typical forty-something Long Island divorcee giving it her best on my dome. Phil Collins’ 80s opus “No Jacket Required” was blasting on the music box and this chick had just finished shearing my sides. She then took a step back and with a look of disgust obscuring her face, asked, “Do you know you have sores on your head?”

As any man who sleeps in a bed at night and (rarely) pisses themselves or eats out of garbage cans, it’s safe to say I was a tad bit confused. She continued on this path, then asking me, “Do you know if you have the measles?” Unlike Marty McFly’s arrival at the Hill Valley of the past, I knew this was not the 1950s, thus I shouldn’t have contracted a since inoculated disease.

The four or five other customers and stylists within earshot went silent as they stared with their mouths agape at this filthy being before them. I quickly tried to recount the dirty gals I’d had recent relations with and, with the total numbering zero, I sat there speechless as my haircutter slowly backed away from me. She sassed me about some sort of health code regulation and promptly ushered me out of the “salon” with a mushroom cut and a head full of questions and supposed open sores.

He's baaack...

Now, I can only imagine what you may be thinking at this point. Though I am unemployed and frequently sleep on park benches, I am by no means a “disease ridden bum off the streets” (the exact words I used when pleading with the hairdresser). I drove home from JLD desperately trying to hold back tears every time I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the monstrosity perched upon my scalp. In an effort to ensure that I only face embarrassment this summer, I shaved my entire head when I arrived home. It was the only option; I had to tell such an absurd story, but I also needed to assure those that heard of my sores that they were dreamed up by my deranged hair stylist and were not really oozing atop my watermelon-sized skull. I will admit that because of my Irish-ness (for which I blame all of my afflictions on), I do have an inordinate amount of freckles on the top of my head, whereas most other Micks have them shit-through-a-screen-door style on their faces, arms, and/or backs. And whatever else may reside way up there is of no potential harm to others…may I repeat, there are no sores. All that sits up there now is the promise of a demoralized summer, complete with pale legs, beer bellies, and a haircut generally reserved for convicts and mental patients. So much for the beauty being planted in Spring.