I was too scared to go all the way with my haircut–to have the sweet little hairdresser set aside her scissors, and hair thinners and take out her electric clippers and shave it down to the skin. Nothing left but a clean polished pate. A clean start. A vow. An expression of simplicity. Instead, while most of it got cut off, I left a respectable amount up there to gel and coif and shampoo.
One day I’ll go through with it, when I join a monastic order or become a fugitive from justice. Until then, I should try blend in with the local population. Lay low. Keep a low profile until I receive my orders.
Speaking of monks, I was reading the guidelines for my upcoming Awareness of Death retreat at the Bhavana Society. The guidelines are based on the Buddhist precepts, but I found the seventh one a bit unfamiliar and, well, odd:
7. I undertake the training rule to abstain from dancing, singing, music, shows, wearing garlands, using ….perfumes, and beautifying with cosmetics.
How am I supposed to get through the weekend without my garlands? And what about my plans to do a few numbers from “The Kind and I” during our breaks? Why can’t an awareness of death include a few show tunes?
The raggedy remains of winter are being run out of town on a rail by these loud and raucous winds. The gentle breezes of spring will follow soon–already the daffodils are pushing up through the wet ground. I took my thong out of storage and bought a new bottle of coco butter in preparation for the warmer weather.
When that first warm day arrives, would you rub some on my back?