Hair! Hair!

To say that Hobbes the Hobo dog just got a haircut is like saying Moammar Gadhafi has had better weeks. One grooming Groupon and--voila!--Hobbes went from half blind and haggard to high and tight.

In fact, he now looks like a deer, which concerns me, considering the city recently took down a bull elk in The Knolls neighborhood.

Hobbes has had his share of close shaves--such is the burden of a hirsute beast in the Holt household, where the moneymakers aren't anxious to part with said money. Twice a year, in fact, he goes from cute to "ew!" For some reason, though, this time, he's still kind of cute. Shivery and nervous, but cute, too.

What is it about a haircut that can be so transforming? Why is it we tie up so much of our beings in what kind of hair days we're having? Or what products we're using?

As I ponder the hairstyle history of my own lifetime, a few moments stand on end as being particularly memorable. Not that that's a good thing, though. Who, after all, wants to see another guy perm or girls with hair so big it won't fit in their yearbook photos?

What's so awful about a bad haircut, though, is that there's really nowhere to hide.

I remember the first perm I got, shortly after high school. Driving home, still smelling like a chemical fart, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear-view and almost flipped my car. The person who looked back at me wasn't a teenager, but rather some perky, middle-aged mom tooling around in the family wagon between births. I was appalled.

But it wasn't the last perm I ever got.

The last perm I ever got was in 1989. I was in my second year at Pius High School, and engaged to be married. In return for watching my hairstylist's house while she was away, she gave me an after-hours perm. Downtown. In front of a big, big window.

After pulling handfuls of my hair through some sort of skull cap and applying great swaths of chemicals to it, she pardoned herself, saying she had to pick up her son.

And so I sat there, looking like Phyllis Diller on acid. In full view of anyone who happened to walk past her downtown shop that evening. I was utterly alone and a wee bit scary to look at. And she took a very, very long time to return.

By the time she returned to the shop, two thirds of my hair was officially dead, looking more like a bleached hay bale than anything that could grow out of a skull. For half a year, I lived as an albino scarecrow, with strange, white strands stapled to the sides of my head.

Mark married me anyway.

But only because he'd had his fair share of really bad cuts, too.

Like that time he got three cuts in one day from the hair college downtown. . . .

Now THAT'S a Good Sport!

Last night, I was reminded that the word "fan" is short for "fanatic." Six points from the Husker volleyball team toppling unbeaten Illinois, I was screaming like a Banshee, having just made myself a vow to hock up my lungs right out of my mouth. Even if it took the rest of my life.

Fortunately, it only took about 10 minutes. But I was quite willing to keep at it until the last blonde hair on my head had squeaked "uncle" and given it up to the gray.

I could not have been higher, either physically or emotionally, wedged into seat 11, row 12, section N, my back against the brick, my head just inches below the seam where wall meets roof line. Two hours earlier, I had a short, polite conversation with the person to my right, a 60-ish woman who seemed nice enough. By 9 p.m., I was hugging her like a long-lost relative, squeezing her shoulders a bit too hard. Beaming like an utter idiot.

There is something irresistible in watching twelve strong, supremely talented athletes battle it out in close quarters. Something almost mystical in the way they communicate in the flash of an eye, somehow knowing where the ball--and the opponent--will be next.

Fuzz your eyes a bit, and suddenly the Husker Volleyball team isn't six individuals, but rather a vacillating, interconnected amoeba, each piece seamlessly bound to the next. It is truly astounding to watch them play. Especially when everyone's in sync.

Yeah, I watched their football counterparts humiliate Minnesota earlier in the day. But I also was able to keep reading my book and catch a nap while I did so. Such side activities are not options when the game is volleyball. Put the two sports on a split screen and I dare you to ignore those six women, operating like some magical Spirograph--fluid, fast, strangely circular.

Next to a volleyball match, football seems embarrassingly clunky and slow. Ah, but I wander. . . .

This is about last night, the toppling of a king (or queen). The transfer of the throne to the women in red. My friend Allison and I were two of the four thousand, lucky enough to witness the transfer. Feverish and in love. Simply beaming.

Downright fanatical, one might say.

A Transformative Nod to My Pops, Jim Raglin

When I was a kid, the only way I'd drink iced tea was with a heaping teaspoon of sugar mixed in. I still have a sweet tooth--sweet teeth might be a better descriptor--but, somewhere in my late teens, I quit adding sugar to my tea. By my 20s, I'd forgotten what all that sugary fuss was about, instead preferring my tea "neat."

It's odd when a part of our world slips away, worn down by new life and distractions until we can barely recall what its original edges looked like.

Eighteen years ago this week--I'm not even sure which day this week--my dad died. Eighteen years of this world without that man. That funny, sharp, bridge-building man.

Shortly after he died, I remember figuring there would be some sort of cosmic disruption in the order of things, now that Jim Raglin's fire had been snuffed.

Somewhere in my forties, though, my dad slipped away from me, his edges softened until it was possible for me to slide my feet over his spirit and feel nothing but the smoothness of the day.

That smoothness, though, is not disloyalty. Hardly. It is, instead, a kind of soft comfort, proof that my dad has been taken into this earth and turned into something else. Something lighter, less defined.

I am no longer bound by his angular lines and lanky body. No longer bound by his cackling laugh or unfortunate comb-over caught in a crosswind. Instead, his has been a circular journey, transformative and quiet. Hardly noticeable at times.

Mark is the gardener in my family now, but I think that, in honor of my dad, I will spend time on my knees and bury my hands in the wet, dank earth out back. There, I will smell life and death, trading places, transforming each other, wearing down the edges until they form something new.

There, in the garden, I will meet my dad again, and tell him about my day.

Little Mouse on the Prairie

Yesterday, I got a lesson in kayaking. Like most students, when the subject interests me, I'm capable of paying attention for great swaths of time. Fifteen, twenty minutes, if required.

Yesterday's lesson unfolded over the span of an hour, beginning with loading the kayaks and equipment in my friend's car and securing them with various cinches and bungee cords. Winding around Holmes Lake, where the sun was pondering a late-afternoon nap while the wind was just waking up, I was surprised at how many other kayaks dotted the landscape.

Mary Ann and I headed to the backside of the lake, where a family of fishermen stood near the reedy banks that abutted the golf course. Ours would be the only kayaks on this portion of the lake, alee of the wind's full force.

I needed a few hundred yards of water to figure out how to maneuver the thing, but Mary Ann was a patient teacher, and a good role model, to boot. Soon, I was sluicing through the water, still a bit clumsy but infinitely quieter in my motions.

If a person can lollygag in a kayak, that's what we did, hugging the grassy banks, lazily chasing an overworked muskrat, holding our collective breath as we moved in on a family of blue-winged teals. A lone blue heron (are there any other kinds?) gracefully landed in a pine on the near bank, where he watched us for the better part of an hour, until we shooed him from his perch, if only to see his massive wings in action.

It's pretty obvious to me that I'm a better student out of doors than behind the walls of some building. I can't recall once in my 49 years when my head has bounced with fatigue when fresh air and sunlight are my classroom. Take my women's retreat at the monastery last weekend.

Ambling through the slow hills towards Schuyler, it was obvious I was in for a treat. When we finally turned into the monastery's lane, I was not disappointed by what I saw--a beautiful building tucked into grassy hills and accented by a calm lake.

The weekend was terrific, especially the time we spent outdoors or getting to know each other. Inside, where the hard work of learning took place, I fell back into my role of middling student, not bright enough to quite "get" the material, fidgety as I wondered what natural wonders were revealing themselves just outside those walls.

Perhaps it would have been better for me if they'd just opened the doors, pointed to the prairie and said: "See you in two hours. Let me know what you learn."

Such are the lessons I find outdoors, infinite in their creativity, clever and beautiful in their delivery.

Wanted: "Accordian--older model. I'll pay cash!"

That "lost" clarinet got me thinking. Of all the sections in a newspaper, is there one that can top the hope which continually spills from the Want Ads?

No. Seriously.

So, I put my emerging theory to the test this morning, scanning the Want Ads for even one example of something that did not represent hope. Couldn't find it. Even the Cemetery Lots section framed things through the lens of hope. Who wouldn't want to save a few bucks and get a nice, shady place to hang one's eternal hat? I'd be lying if I said Mark and I haven't occasionally looked for that one last plot of land.

Certainly, the most emotion-soaked section of the Want Ads is the Lost & Found. Often, they read more like slivers of a personal diary than dry reporting, exposing the writer to the world's cynical eye. Here, in the Lost and Founds, we find out what really matters to people. And, often, it can be heartbreaking. Especially when it comes to someone's pets.

Today's Lost and Found section is surprisingly absent of pets, aside from those who have found their way to the Capital Humane Society. But it is not absent of untold stories. Consider this, which was found not far from my house: photographs and wedding ring receipt. Tell me there isn't hope or heartbreak in that one.

But don't think all the hope of the Want Ads is rooted in the Lost & Found. Consider 6701 Wildflower Court. It's been on the market for well over a year and, each day, its owners stand steadfast in their belief that, somewhere, there is someone who'd like to live in that house. Each day, you find its expensive, photo-laden promise of a life of luxury. How hopeful are these people? Let's just say that, in the long year my daughter has checked on it, the price has not drop. One cent. And it's yours for just $849,000.

Sometimes, hope and foolishness cross paths.

I used to think that the Letters to the Editor represented what is best about our Democracy. After all, there, you find the everyday man--or perennial local presence Edgar Pearlstein--taking a stand. But now I'm thinking that it's in the Want Ads where we find the best and most joyful part of humanity. Where else would someone spend money advertising things they are giving away for FREE (Today? Black walnuts, a blue-and-tan easy chair, a garage, a mattress--no thanks!--and a color tv)?

With all the hard news of the world knocking on my door, maybe I'd be better off dosing myself with some good, old-fashioned Want Ads.

On the Clock...Again

Every clock in my life is goofy these days. At home, not a one is in sync with the others, meaning that great expanses of time might elapse before I even cross the room. Or, if I'm crossing in the other direction, I may suddenly find myself with "do over" possibilities, time seemingly having reversed itself.

Even my internal clock seems off a bit, so I've felt more ebb than flow of late, and I'm definitely a "flow" person.

It's not that I'm obsessed with knowing the time. After all, I don't even wear a watch--although I did don the Baconator Friday, but strictly as wrist bling, considering it has no functioning battery.

For me, it's a matter of steadiness. Knowing my time and this place helps to anchor me. In the past week, those qualities have eased back into my life, and I'm mighty grateful to see them again.

Who knows why I awoke with lightness the other morning? Perhaps this incredible string of gorgeous days finally seeped in and righted me. Maybe it was the earthy smell of fall--that strange mix of dust and death and dirt--that awoke my senses.

At this point, I'm not really asking why my steadiness has returned. I'm just enjoying it. In all of its forms. In the weather. My friends and family. In my students. My home. In my renewed enthusiasm for life and God and nature, right down to the fuzzy caterpillars that trust they'll make it across the trail unscathed.

I come from a very on-time family. We're great with deadlines and hate being late to things. I think that's why this past month or so has been such an internal struggle for me...my zest for life was a overdue and I didn't know where to look for it.

I should have known it was right here all along, hiding under a tangle of old necklaces, next to that watch battery I've never gotten around to using.