More Assorted thoughts of no particular importance

Estimated reading time: 2 minute, 9 seconds

Haircuts and shampoo

It never fails.

I get a haircut, go about my day and then go to bed. The next morning I feel my hair and remember that I got haircut and am happy that I finally took the time to get the haircut after three shaggy weeks of nagging myself.

However, all recognition of the new haircut disappears in the shower. Ready to wash my hair, I squeeze out the same amount of shampoo as I had the day before. This is, of course, way too much shampoo as the length of my hair has been trimmed by 50 percent.

Ultimately I am left with an abundance of lather that I have no use for, some of which undoubtedly runs into my eyes.

Depressing

I bought a pocket-sized notebook to record assorted thoughts of no particular importance while I am away from a computer or larger portion of paper. However, the first thing I write in it is "Georgy Girl," which serves as a reminder that I'd really like to download the 1966 oldie-but-goodie by The Seekers. I then note how lame I am.

Dogs vs. Mailmen: Hatred Not A Myth

The fact that my dog barks at the mailman is not the issue. Even I have the desire – albeit suppressed – to nervously shout and alert others if a stranger steps onto my porch, whether they be from Jehovah's Witness, Manchester Democrats, LDS or U.S Mail.

It's more of a concern as to when she starts barking at the mailman. Before I get to that, it's important to know that we live in a normal neighborhood where people freely and regularly walk up and down the sidewalk at all times during daylight hours, usually pushing a stroller or being pulled by a dog. Hellion, perched atop her lookout on the arm of the couch where she can monitor the neighborhood from the living room window, allows these pedestrians to walk past in silence.

But Monday through Saturday, Hellion begins to bark at around 11 a.m. I look out the window and see nothing. I look harder, opening the shades as far as possible and pressing my face against the glass to the point of pain to see what is the object of her ire. The mailman, walking his route, is across the street . . . five houses down. He is the size of a Cocoa Pebble to us. And yet she knows it's him, barking and growling, almost out of pure hatred. I compliment her on her remarkable eyesight – clearly better than mine – then tell her to pipe it down.

Maybe it's the blue wool pants, blue cotton blend shirt, eagle-emblazoned hat or the canvas sack of mail. Whatever it is, Hellion doesn't like it.

Where's the Laundromat?

We were driving in downtown Hartford today and were stopped at a stoplight. My window was down, letting the 78-degree air permeate the car's interior. A man on the sidewalk carrying a sack of laundry shouts at me.

"Hey, do you know where there's a laundry-mat?!"

Unfamiliar with that part of town I said I didn't know.

But after thinking about for a second, I was like "Man, you need a plan before you're walking down the street with a bag of dirty clothes."