We live in a divisive area. Few agree on anything. Just today, my house told me it was 105 degrees F, the car said it was 102, and Alexa said it was 100.
Floofophily (floofinition) – Tendency of people to seek out or show attraction to animals.
In use: “Her floofphily developed into a commitment to help animals, often fostering kittens and puppies and their mothers, helping them recover rough starts and then homing them”
I received a haircut today, the first in two months. It was a few weeks overdue. My hair is losing its presence on top and my forehead keeps pushing my hair line back. Hair grows thick and heavy on my sides and back, and still falls in waves of curls. The whole thing can become an unmanageable beast, fighting me about what I want it to do. It won a few times this week. I finally acquiesced to a growing need to deal with it.
Part of my reluctance is the pandemic protocols. We’re in a small town. Not many barber shops, salons, and stylists are among the businesses. Our town is oriented toward college students and tourists, translating business needs into drinking and eating establishments – pizza, restaurants, and beer, wine, coffee, and pastries. Scattered among them are gas stations, grocery stores, clothing boutiques, and bookstores.
Places catering to hair are less frequent. Almost all closed on Sunday and Monday. Most close early on Saturdays. The windows to get a haircut get perilously small. Pandemic closures meant less people working in these places. Appointments are the norm, and they’re precious. I was turned away because nothing was available at three locations in the course of five attempts spent over three days.
An appointment for a haircut. That blows away my youthful memories of walking into quiet establishments, taking a number, and waiting ten to fifteen minutes. In my military days, aka my youth, I had more hair to cut and more frequent needs to cut it to meet regulations. But the prices were better. In the beginning, we’re talking $1.10 for a haircut. Slowly it went to two dollars…five…ten…
Today, I spent $30 with a tip to trim my silvery locks and tame my curls. But I put the $30 haircut into context with coffee. I used to spend fifty cents to a dollar for a cup of coffee. I spent $4 on a cuppa today. Filling my car with gas cost six dollars for a time back then, compared to the fifty I just put out. Yeah, bread was two dollars a loaf, and it now runs $7. It was white bread back then, and now it’s multigrain, and I buy it cheaper at Costco, which wasn’t around back in those days. Cat food was a quarter a tin. Now it hits a dollar each. Hell, I remember spending $7,000 to buy a new Firebird, an expense that took a deep breath to decide after hours of calculations and days of mental wrestling. Good luck finding a new car, loaded, for seven grand these days.
I’ll just put in a mention about real estate. We bought our first place for half a million dollars. Family, still used to lower prices, were stunned. It wasn’t a large place, a sixteen hundred square foot condo, three bedrooms, three baths, two car garage, three stories. My family was more astonished when we sold that place after a few years for three hundred grand more than we paid. I was astonished, too. That was almost twenty years ago.
Context. It all costs more now — houses, cars, air fare, food, clothing, and yeah, haircuts. I look good, though. Young Megan, probably in her twenties, did a good job.
He suggested that they take their books to the park and read under some trees.
“Too muggy out,” she answered.
“Muggy? It’s hot and dry.”
“It was muggy to me.”
He looked out the window. No clouds could be seen from east to west, north to south. “Alexa, what’s the current humidity?”
Fifteen percent, the machine answered.
One of them didn’t understand what muggy means, he thought.
SIBUF (floofinition) – Internet slang for ‘Stuck in Bed Under Floof’, when a sleeping animal stops a person from getting out of bed.
In use: “Camille had plans for getting up early Saturday morning and getting things done, but Don Juan — who apparently thought he was a tiny puppy and not a huge beast — had her SIBUF and refused to get up, forcing a change to her agenda.”
A friend announced he was thinking of his age as the temperature and decided he would convert it from Fahrenheit to Celsius, which would make it him just 22 years old.
Floofhaste (floofinition) – The need to do something quickly for an animal.
In use: “The looks they were giving and the noises they made ordered Tanya, ‘Feed me now,’ sending her to replenish the food bowls floofhaste.”
Friday glanced over at the man accosting her. She was used to fans but sometimes they were too much, too close. Too weird could also often be applied to her fans.
“Hello,” she answered with a shiny smile.
The man hustled up to her, over ideal recommendations for weight and age, graying and stooping. “I’ve been waiting for you for I don’t know how long. I’m your biggest fan.”
“Why, thank you. Fans like you and your sweet encouragement keeps me going.”
The man’s expression clouded over. Friday knew it; having met his hero, he didn’t know what to say. “So, you gonna be here all day?” he said, and even he recognized that he’d drilled the top of the lamometer with that one.
“Yep, all day.” Friday resumed her stroll. “I got here at midnight and will leave at midnight tonight. Right now I’m enjoying the sunshine.”
“Right, yeah, did you know that sunrise was at 5:35 this morning and sunset will be at 8:51 tonight, which are the same exact times as yesterday?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” Friday shoveled astonished enthusiasm into her tone. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Can I get a selfie with you?”
“Sure, sugar.” Friday bent in a way to emphasize her curves and pouted in a sexy manner, putting on a show for her fan.
Checking the photo, he said, “Wow, that’s so great. You made my day, Friday. You made my life. Thank you so much. You’re the best.”
“No, you’re the best,” she replied, kissing his cheek, feeding off his pleasure. “Have a good day, now.”
Friday moved on. She had somewhere to be before the sun set.
Today is June 24, 2012. Temperature is 64 F now after dropping to 55 during the night, with expectations that it’ll nip at 90 F before the day is through.
“Fat Bottomed Girls” by Queen from 1978 is in the morning mental music stream, a product of seeing a guy ride by when I was out walking yesterday. First the neurons sang, “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike,” from “Bicycle Race” by Queen, and then the neurons pivoted and brought in the other song. So, here I am, sitting at home at the computer with a bicycle song churning up my mental stream.
Stay positive and test negative. The hands on the clock say it’s coffee time. Enjoy your Friday. Here’s the tune. Cheers