Free haircuts are priceless
Whenever I cut my hair, I think about my grandpa. It’s probably because we have the same haircut, his a leftover buzz cut from WWII, mine a lazy buzz reaction to balding and high priced hair cutteries.

Today my hair past the comfortable buzz length into that silly stage. Grandpa’s used to do the same thing. I remember his big smile under that funny German nose, little patches of hair sticking up, accentuated by the hair that wasn’t there.

When I was quite a bit younger, one of our favorite games was “Trap me, Grandpa.” He’d sit in his La-Z-boy pretending to read, or just smiling mischeviously, and I’d crawl up to the edge of his chair with a sly grin of my own. I’d stare at him while he pretended to be interested in the newspaper and then suddenly SNAP his legs would close around me and I’d be trapped. I’d struggle to break free, grabbing at his shoes or his ankles until he released his grip just slightly. I’d see my opening and break for it, when SNAP his legs would come back together and we’d go through the whole struggle again. As soon as I did manage to get free, or looking back, probably as soon as he let me get free, I’d crawl back to the edge of the chair with that sly grin and say, “Trap me”.

Sometimes he would, but other times he’d just say “Settle down”, or he’d make me go wash up for dinner. Grandpa and the bathroom we washed up in always smelled like a combination of three things: lawn mowers, Lava soap, and Listerine. Once I bought some black soap just to play a trick on him. He came in from working on the lawn mowers ready to wash up for lunch and my grandma said, “Try this new soap we got you,” with a wink in my direction. He took that black soap, the kind that turns your hands black, and he lathered away. He lathered and rinsed and lathered some more, but he didn’t notice the blackness a bit. His hands were already so covered in grease that even black soap was a step in the right direction. He probably would’ve washed all afternoon if we hadn’t told him the joke. It wasn’t much of a joke anyway. I can’t remember if he laughed, but I bet he smiled. He did that a lot.

I remember getting up early in the morning when I stayed over and he’d be drinking his coffee halfway through a crossword puzzle. He’d smile as he offered me breakfast and the sports section of the paper. It didn’t matter if I could read or not, he’d still offer.

He was a big baseball fan, and a Royals fan. He’s the reason I can never truly hate baseball even after the strikes, the steroids, the scandals break my heart, I’ll never forget my grandpa and the Royals. I’m sure I’d heard that he had played semi-pro, but all I really understood was that he loved the game and he knew it better than anyone in my world. When we’d go to the Royals games, he’d buy a scorecard and we’d keep score. He always knew what was going to happen next and as far as I can remember he was always right.

I played baseball for a little while and he was my biggest fan. I bet it saddened him when I tossed aside the mitt after just a few years. He never complained though. And he cheered just as hard when I ran in Cross Country meets.

At his funeral, that first week after my freshman year of college, a recorded trumpet played “Take me out to the ballgame”. It was as beautiful as it was sad. Those that spoke at his funeral said wonderful admirable things about this man and his life, about his spirtuality and his personality, and about baseball. So much of it I never knew. The bits that I did get- the smells, and the smiles, the baseball and the love; those things are with me forever.

You can’t get that with a $20 haircut.