keep Baltimore beautiful

Well, we just returned from yet another cruise — our second one this year. We sailed on the Carnival Pride. This was our first cruise that left from the port of Baltimore, the so-called "Charm City," a misnomer if I ever heard one.

When Mrs. Pincus booked this trip, she arranged for an overnight stay and a shuttle to the cruise terminal through an online service called "Park Sleep Fly." (Wasn't there a serial killer with that nickname?) We packed our luggage and headed south on I-95 towards the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. For around a hundred bucks, they offered a room for overnight, parking for our car for the week we'd be away and shuttle service to the pier — plus a complimentary breakfast in the morning. Sounds good? Yeah..... we'll see.

We followed the directions as the indispensable Waze app guided us to our destination. Exiting I-895, Mrs. P navigated through what can only be described as a seedy-looking neighborhood, eventually arriving at our accommodations situated in a small courtyard at the end of Belle Grove Road, just past two auto body salvage yards.

The first thing I noticed as we pulled into the parking lot was the distinct lack of "Best Western" signage and branding. Nowhere was there any indication that this hotel was part of the Best Western chain. The backlit sign at the street very plainly identified the place as "BWI Airport Inn and Suites" The front of the building bore no signs at all. I found this strange and a bit suspicious. We parked and entered the building at the lobby. It looked like a million hotels we've seen (and passed) along the I-95 corridor, but still, not a single "Best Western" anything in sight. There was a large seating area opposite the front desk that was obvious used for the included breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Pincus confirmed our reservation with the slutty-looking blond behind the desk. We were informed that the cost of the shuttle was not included in the final price of our stay. Mrs. P quickly scanned the confirmation that she had printed out and we reluctantly paid the additional charge. The woman behind the desk rattled off a list of convoluted instructions regarding the timing and meeting area for the shuttle the next morning. She handed my wife a small cardboard portfolio with our electronic room keys and disappeared into a back room. Mrs. P and I exchanged silent glances, knowing full well that neither one of us was certain as to where and how we were to be taken to the pier tomorrow morning. We dragged our luggage over to the elevators.

The elevator arrived. We entered. The door closed. The inside of the doors were decorated with large, full-color graphics of the Baltimore Orioles — which were defaced with angry, jagged gouges obscuring the smiling visage of the familiar Oriole logo. The doors opened at the seventh floor and we followed the directional wall signs to our room. A pile of trash — two greasy pizza boxes, several Coke cans and some unidentifiable crumbled paper — was on the floor next to the small utility room that housed two vending machines and a commercial ice maker. The pile remained for our entire stay.

We found our room and Mrs. P swiped the plastic key card in the lock. A little green light above the knob flashed. I opened the door. The first thing I noticed was a black backpack sitting on the floor under the lone window. The lights were out. The beds were made. The room appeared clean and unoccupied... except for the backpack. Again, Mrs. Pincus and I exchanged bewildered glances. I slowly approached the backpack and gave it a gentle nudge with my foot. Mrs. Pincus exclaimed in horror, "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking to see if something is in it.," I replied, although I was quickly cut off by a stern "Don't touch it!" from my wife.

We decided that the removal of the backpack was the responsibility of a hotel employee. Still with our luggage in tow, we retraced our steps to the elevator (passing the trash pile along the way). Back at the front desk, we encountered a new member of the hotel staff. This woman was dress in a more professional manner and wore a name tag that identified her as the manager. The blond who greeted us earlier was nowhere in sight. Mrs. P told the manager of the strange backpack in our room. The manager listened and immediately asked if we'd like a different room.

"No," Mrs. P answered, "We just want someone to remove the backpack."

A fellow from the maintenance staff was summoned and he accompanied us to our room. Once inside, he fearlessly approached and grabbed the backpack. "Anything else?," he asked with a smile and without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the remote control for the television off the desk. "Let me make sure your TV works.," he said, and mashed a few buttons on the device until the screen lit up. We thanked him as he exited our room.

As night fell, Mrs. P and I ran through our dinner options using Google for nearby restaurants. Across the street was a Checkers, whose neon sign inexplicably flashed "Gheckers" from a side window. Next to that was a Dunkin Donuts. We ruled out both of theses choices, settling instead on hoagies from a nearby Wawa, the beloved Philadelphia convenience chain that has expanded down the east coast. I got directions to the closest Wawa. As we walked to our car, I spotted two young ladies exiting our hotel from the rear of the building. They were prancing towards a car parked in the corner of the parking lot. Both were dressed like stereotypical prostitutes you'd see in any episode of any police show on television in the 70s— short, tight skirts, sparkly tops, fishnet stockings and impossibly tall platform shoes. Glances were exchanged for a third time.

No microwaves for you.

The Wawa was a short drive from our hotel, but located in an equally sketchy neighborhood. We ordered from the touch-screen kiosk, just like at our hometown Wawa. While we waited for our order, a woman, possibly inebriated, burst in and approached the associate who was assembling our sandwiches. She loudly asked if they had a microwave that she could borrow, an odd request, in my opinion. The Wawa associate waved her off and continued with our order as the drunk woman staggered out of the store. More silent glances were exchanged. After dinner, we watched television and then went to sleep.

Pancakes!

The next morning, we packed up our stuff and headed down to the lobby. The lobby and breakfast area were bustling with activity. Folks were milling around — assembling a morning meal from the array of items set out by the hotel. Aside from the usual fare of coffee, bagels, cereal and yogurt, there was a self-serve waffle iron and a contraption that dispensed pancakes that looked like it was designed by Rube Goldberg.

Not included in this story.

We got clarification of the procedure for the shuttle. A woman with a clipboard scurried in and out of the lobby, checking off names and gathering groups together. A ten-seat mini van pulled up outside and folks were instructed to file in, leaving their luggage for the driver to pile up in the back storage area. After a bit of confusion and misinformation. Mrs. Pincus and I were directed to the van and soon we were officially off. Within twenty minutes, we were dropped off at the pier.

We cruised.

At the mercy of a bungee.

A week later, we returned from the sunny Caribbean to Baltimore, which was experiencing a heavy downpour. After a fairly simple debarkation process, we claimed our luggage and started towards the designated shuttle area. Trudging through the maze of people waiting for the departing cruise, we maneuvered to the small bus shelter where we spotted some families we recognized from our hotel (and a few we actually spoke to on our cruise). Our waterlogged colleagues told us that they had been waiting for some time, even after a call to the hotel assured them that "someone will be there in a few minutes." A familiar ten-seat mini van pulled up and our group hustled to find seats inside. Once our luggage was loaded, the driver struggled with the sliding side door, grinding it uncomfortably along its track, forcing it to close. His efforts were unsuccessful. Finally, he asked the husband of a young lady (we watched her sing a karaoke version of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" a few nights earlier) to grab and attach the free end of a rubber bungee cord to the inside door handle. This was as suspicious as the backpack in our room. The driver hit the gas and ascended the on-ramp of I-895. As the van gained speed, the sliding side door slid open — first an inch, then a few more — kept in check only by the flexible restraints of the bungee. The karaoke girl clutched and pulled her husband closer.

The shuttle lumbered into the parking lot of the Best Western BWI Airport Inn & Suites. A neon yellow emergency vehicle — its top lights blazing — was parked under the carport at the buildings entrance. Two men in reflective vests stood by the ambulance's rear doors. Mrs. Pincus and I — the first ones out — quickly collected our luggage from that back of the shuttle. We found our car at the rear of the building..... and got the hell out of Baltimore.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

people gonna talk

Well, it's December and winter has hit the Philadelphia area. On most mornings, I will wait for my train out on the open-air platform. On days that begin with temperatures in the low 20s, I reluctantly opt for the warmth that the small ticket office offers. I say "reluctantly" because I really have to weigh the situation. Sure, I don't want to stand out in the cold and freeze my ass off, but do I really want to subject myself to what goes on inside the ticket office?

The office (which is only open Monday through Friday from 5:45 a.m. until 11:45 a.m. — and not a minute past!), is tiny, cramped and in desperate need of a good refurbishing. It is a sad, nondescript room with high ceilings, dated, cracked linoleum floor tiles and dingy cream-colored walls. Two adjacent walls have wooden, slat-backed benches that can accommodate three people, if they are courteous enough to occupy their allotted space. Otherwise, those taking refuge in the ticket office are relegated to standing around, scattered haphazardly like prisoners in the exercise yard. The ticket agent — a gray-haired woman in a heavy fleece pullover (no matter what the weather) — sits in a separate little area behind a half-wall of glass. Small as it is, it seems to have been outfitted with all the comforts of home — a microwave and toaster oven, a radio, a small television, three wall calendars, two clocks that display different times and a plethora of snacks all neatly stacked on top of a filing cabinet that looks as though it has not been opened in decades. On cold weather days, such as today, the waiting area inside the ticket office can get pretty crowded, putting standing space at a premium. Most people wait quietly, rubbing their gloved hands together to generate heat. Others, though, choose to loudly engage their fellow commuters in some inane chit-chatty conversation.

Conversation one:

Commuter 1: It sure is cold this morning.
Commuter 2: Yeah, it sure is.
Commuter 1: My office at work is always cold, too. Summer. Winter It's always cold.
Commuter 2: Mine is always hot. All the time.
Commuter 1: Yeah. I guess it's always one or the other.

Conversation two:

Commuter 3: Oh! So, how are you?
Commuter 4: I'm good. How is Jacob?
Commuter 3: Jacob is at college in New York. How is Jacob?
Commuter 4: Jacob is good. Jacob has a new job.

Conversation three:

Commuter 5: Did you park your car in the lot?
Commuter 6: No, they're vicious in that lot. If you have a new car, it will get scratched in that lot.
Commuter 5: I don't have a new car.

Conversation four:

Commuter 7: Is the next train to Jefferson Station on time?
Ticket Agent: I think so. I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Well, is it reported late?
Ticket Agent: I'm not sure.
Commuter 7: Don't you get some kind of report or notice?
Ticket Agent: No, not really.
Commuter 7: Aren't you in contact with someone somewhere?
Ticket Agent: Not really.
Commuter 7: So, you don't know when the train is coming?
Ticket Agent: Well, you can check the schedule.

Since the trains are usually late (my train has not been on time in ten years), the amount of time spent standing that close to this mindless, thoughtless, nonsensical rambling can wear on one's nerves. So, I have to decide which is worse: listening to this relentless blather or risk frostbite before the train arrives.

After a few minutes, I always make the same decision. I weave my way through the close crowd and brave the cold.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
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This year, it’s a whopping 71 minutes worth of Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. You get two dozen eclectic Christmas selections plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!) 

   

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

strumming my pain with her fingers

I was on the train for my commute home from work. The train was fairly crowded, but I managed to find a seat. I reached into my bag and located the book which I am currently struggling to finish. (In case you were wondering, it's Dancing Aztecs, a 1976 sprawling and disjointed comic-crime novel by the prolific author Donald Westlake. I have read — and enjoyed — several of Westlake's efforts in the past. This one, however, is trite and contrived and feels like a homework assignment.) The train made its first stop at Jefferson Station and more passengers filed on and filled in all of the remaining seats. The surplus were relegated to standing in the aisles. A woman, who just boarded, stood just inches from me chatting on her cellphone. Maybe it was the close proximity or maybe it was the fact that she was not using her "inside voice," but I could hear every word she was saying. And, boy!, what she was saying!

Obviously, she was in the same line of work as I — graphic design. She was viciously complaining about a particularly irritating series of events that she had experienced at her job. Events that eerily echoed incidents that I have experienced over the past thirty-plus years as a graphic designer.

"...and then she asked me to make the document a PDF, and it was already a PDF!"

"It was the worst designed logo I ever did. Took me five minutes and that's the one they picked!"

"Nope! She didn't know what I meant when I said 'URL'!"

"They keep interrupting me with little jobs that they can do themselves and it keeps me from doing my actual work!"

"They know I'm the designer! What do they know about design?"

I tried not to eavesdrop, but I had no choice. If someone is standing next to you and carrying on a conversation in a loud voice, is it technically eavesdropping? I also tried not to force myself into her conversation. I had to restrain myself from nodding in agreement and interjecting, "Oh, I feel your pain, sister. I feel your pain." Then, punctuate my sentiment with a fist-pump of solidarity. But, that's not me. I don't do stuff like that. I don't talk to people I don't know. So, I went back to my book and she continued her rant.

As the train approached my stop, I returned my book to my bag and fumbled in my jacket pocket for my house keys. The train began to slow as it came into the station. I stood. She turned towards the exit as well. She was getting off at my stop, Should I say something? Should I let her know that she is not alone? Should I offer a bit of artist camaraderie? I inched my way up the aisle just behind her. She descended the train steps to the platform just ahead of me. And...

I didn't say a word.

When I got home, I told my wife the whole tale of what transpired on the train. My wife has heard me complain for thirty-two years over the course of a dozen jobs. She also knows me and my personality quirks and traits better than anyone else. "You didn't say anything to her, did you?," Mrs P. asked. Then: "Of course you didn't.," she answered her own question.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let me please introduce myself

I left my house this morning pretty much like I do every morning. I descended the two steps that lead off my front porch and walked along the paved path that bisects my tiny front lawn. I stepped down two more cement steps and I was on the public sidewalk. I strolled down to the train station that is just at the end of my block. As I walked, I checked (like I do every morning) to make sure I had my phone (I did) and my monthly train pass (I did). I could sense that there was another pedestrian several feet behind me. This was not unusual. At this early hour of the day, my street is fairly active with commuters making their way to the train station. I turned my direction into the train station parking lot and continued up the slightly inclined blacktop towards the train platform. As I walked, I could hear the "thump-thump-thump" of a wheeled suitcase being pulled along the uneven sidewalk behind me.

I continued on to the platform. A small contingency of people had already gathered and more were joining them from cars parked in the lot and other routes from the network of sidewalks that terminate at the station. I walked to the far end of the platform and took the regular spot in which I stand to wait for my train. I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped the icon of the SEPTA app. (SEPTA is the South Eastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, who supplies a regularly-late train each and every morning). As I scrolled through the various pages of the app, checking on the status of my train, I could again sense the approach of someone.

"Hey since we live on the same street and I see you every morning, I thought it was about time I introduce myself." A short, gray-haired man stood just inches from me. He thrust his open hand in my direction, in anticipation of a consensual shake.

"I'm Matthew." he added. 

I couldn't clearly make out his face, as the bright morning sun was filling my line of vision with blinding light. I was also caught off-guard and I did something, given ample time to consider my actions, I would never ever have done.

I shook a stranger's hand.

"I'm Josh.," I heard myself say and, again, I was surprised to hear my own voice saying those words to a stranger.

"Pleasure to meet you, Josh.," Matthew replied. Then he walked off to reunite with his wheeled suitcase, the one he had been dragging on the sidewalk minutes earlier.

I will gladly admit that I am not the friendliest person that ever lived. Well, once I know you, I am friendly. Actually, I am a pretty good friend to people I know. But, getting to know me... ah there's the rub. I am cynical, sarcastic, suspicious and, yes, misanthropic. I don't like to talk to strangers. And, in a million years, I would never blindly introduce myself to a total stranger at a train station — just because I see them every morning on my street. I have seen a lot of people every single day for the past eight years of daily commutes on the train. I don't know any of their names, where they live, where they work... nor do I want to.

But, this guy... this Matthew.... does this mean he's my friend now?

I should have taken a later train today. Or stayed home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

somebody's watching me

My wife likes to watch people. At times, I have caught her, sitting across from me in a restaurant, paying more attention to the conversation in the booth behind me than to the one going on at our table. In her defense, she has known me for thirty-three years, I'm not the most interesting conversationalist and I tend to repeat myself, but still.

I. however, like to watch other people watching people. Because I am a daily train commuter, I see a lot of people. And I see a lot of people watching other people. I see it a lot.

Just the other day, I saw a group of three or four people, possibly co-workers, gathered on the train platform. One member of the group was telling an anecdote about an earlier meeting or relating a funny story about something that happened over the weekend. About three feet away, a guy with nary a hair out of place, rimless glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, dressed in a tailored suit and holding an expensive-looking leather briefcase, stood and hung on to every word of the conversation. He chuckled aloud at the funny parts and cocked his head to one side during some of the lengthy backstory set-ups. He even shook his head in disbelief at the payoff.

I watched him, not paying close attention the actual story, despite the teller speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. I may have even been staring at the man. But, he didn't notice. He was busy concentrating on a conversation to which his participation and inclusion was not invited.

It was the second time in as many days that I witnessed such blatant eavesdropping. A young mother and her son were waiting for the train. The boy was babbling excitedly about all the things they saw during the day. The mother smiled and a woman, a foot or so away, began laughing and nodding her head as though she was another family member. It was very obvious that she was not travelling with the mother and son. She was just sticking her attention in where it was not asked to be stuck.

Wait a second! Am I just as guilty? I don't think so. I am just quietly observing. I am not participating.

But, I'll bet someone is blogging about me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

click click boom

I boarded the train this morning, heading into Center City for the first full work week of the year. I took a seat, reached into my bag for the book I'm currently reading* and opened it up to the bookmarked page. Midway through the first sentence, it began.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. Click.

It was an irregular metallic chirp. Where was it coming from? I looked up and, with my morning-weary eyes, I scanned the train car. I saw mostly the tops of heads bent forward in either sleep or concentration over any number of convenient electronic devices.

Click. Click. Click. Clickclick. Click

I turned to my right and discovered the source of the irritating sound. Curled up in the window corner of the double seat next to me was a guy. In a suit. With a briefcase. And an iPad. And a pen. A regular ball point pen. And he was clicking the fuck out of it. He stared intently at his electronic Apple tablet that was precariously balanced on one jutting knee. In his hand, he absentmindedly worked his thumb at record speed on the click button (that is an actual industry term). I tried to return to my reading, but the patternless clicking was too distracting. I'd read a few sentences and the clicking would begin again. I'd look up and give the "glare of death," but I was powerless. The clicking continued, increasing and decreasing at indiscriminate intervals.

Click. Clickclickclickclick. Click. Click. Click. Clickclick.

What the hell did he need a pen for anyway? He wasn't writing. He had an iPad! He was reading! Unless you're in a college lecture hall, you don't need a pen when you're reading. I was reading and I didn't have a pen.

Click. Click. Clickclick.

Stop it! STOP IT! STOP THAT CLICKING! That's what you would say to your little sister at the dinner table when she's drumming with her utensils. That's what you'd say to your husband when he's... well, pretty much anything he's doing. But, to a stranger on a train not even in the same communal seat? That's just not done. Unless you're a total jerk. (Which I'm not. So, shut up.)

I struggled through a few more pages, not even comprehending what I was reading. Finally, the train arrived at my Center City stop. Mr. Clicky ceased his thumb exercises long enough to gather up his coat, sheathe his iPad and, thankfully, his pen.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* Growgirl: How My Life After The Blair Witch Project Went to Pot by Heather Donahue (Not exactly Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment).

after all, we're only ordinary men

Casinos are places of unusual camaraderie. I am not a fan of camaraderie of any sort, but in casinos it particularly unsettling. I have observed on many occasions that the overwhelming population of people that visit casinos look as though the last place they should be is in a casino. There is an “Us Against Them” feeling among most casino patrons. It’s a feeling of we, as gamblers, are in a battle against the nameless, faceless, evil entity that is “The Casino” and it is our duty to take down this Goliath. Defeat is achieved by bankrupting the giant and since we are “all in this together”, we are entitled to know the status of each member of the campaign. This is a group to which I do not wish to belong, nor do I wish to be recruited.

Because of the configuration of casino’s slot machine areas — wide open floor space with row after row of machines  — non-playing spectators are offered easy access to view and comment on the activity of total strangers and a lot of them take full advantage of the situation. And once someone occupies the machine next to you, they are granted full disclosure to your financial situation. Or so they believe.

My wife and I spent the final days of 2012 in Atlantic City as guests of Harrah’s Casino Resort. In the afternoon, Mrs. P and I ventured into the casino for a little gaming before attending a New Years Eve party for invited guests. My wife sat down at a slot machine and slid a twenty into the bill acceptor slot and the machine sprung to life. She hit a few consecutive winning combinations, each one tendering a fairly high payout. I stood quietly behind her and expressed my pleasure of her luck. The older woman seated at the machine to her immediate left paused her playing to also express her pleasure.

“Oh good for you!,” she exclaimed in a cigarette-roughened voice, “That was a good hit!” and then, she questioned, “How much did that pay?”

We both looked at her without answering. My wife pushed the “Cash Out” button, grabbed the printed voucher and we left. We found another machine, one themed to the 1984 Bill Murray supernatural comedy Ghostbusters. This particular machine is set up as a pair of consoles with stereo speakers integrated into the bucket seat. The two machines are connected to a flat-screen monitor that displays game graphics, scenes from the film and simulcasts of the games in play. The game is loud and fun and — if you’re winning — even more fun. While Mrs. P played, a man walked up to watch the action. At first, we thought he was a companion to the woman playing the Ghostbusters game next to our left, but we soon realized, by her reaction to his unwanted commentary, he was not. This man’s comments got louder and more frequent as the time went on. And the longer he stood by us, he deemed himself the official Ghostbusters slot machine play-by-play announcer. He described each and every outcome of each and every spin of the electronic reels. “Hey, that was a good pay!” and “Yes! Five of a kind! That pays great!” were coming at us every few seconds. He emphatically cheered when the three “Bonus Game” symbols appeared on the center reel, indicating additional play-within-play for supplemental payouts. He offered his views on which were the better Bonus Games, which were his favorite, which gave the highest payouts — all without anyone ever asking his opinion.

Despite the fact that she was doing well, Mrs. P had had enough. She stabbed the “Cash Out” button with her finger. As she grabbed the newly-printed voucher, the man, now standing well into our personal space, asked, “Are you guys winning?” We did not answer as we pushed past him and made our way deeper into the casino.

The news is full of stories of people being followed, attacked, beaten, robbed, carjacked, and murdered in the areas surrounding casinos. Crooks will observe a winning patron and tail them to a secluded, dimly-lit area of a parking lot and help themselves to the winners’ stash, sometimes with the help of a weapon. Some winners have even been followed home by determined thieves. So why on earth would I confirm to a random someone in a casino that I am winning? Why would a complete stranger feel that my monetary status at that particular moment is any of their goddamn business? Would these same people stand outside of a bank and inquire about the balance in my checking account? Would they feel that the contents of my monthly Visa bill is within their right to know? Do they believe that my weekly pay stub should be public knowledge? My income tax return put on display?

Humans. I will never figure them out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

almost cut my hair

After a huge Italian meal, we did the next logical thing. We went to get doughnuts. So, we waved goodbye to my brother and sister-in-law as we exited the restaurant and drove to a Krispy Kreme not too far from our house.

It was around 9 o'clock in the evening and Oxford Avenue was dark and quiet. We parked in the nearly-empty Krispy Kreme lot and walked in. One young lady was shuffling trays into the glass displays behind the service counter and a man in a hairnet silently presided over the winding conveyor belt, surveying the contingency of plump, holed pastries passing under the viscous waterfall of sugary glaze. A booth in the far corner was occupied by two men who looked as though they were nursing the same cup of coffee for several weeks. Aside from that, the place was deserted.

We studied the various baked choices and considered several of the holiday-themed offerings (two-tiered doughnuts frosted like snowmen and glazed gingerbread crullers). Suddenly, Mrs. P's hair got yanked. Immediately, she suspected me — but, in the thirty years I've known her, I have never felt the need nor desire to yank her long locks. Then, she thought it may have been an acquaintance who entered through another door and recognized her from afar.

Nope. It was none of those.

It was a short woman in a dirty sweater, lipstick smeared haphazardly across her mouth, a knit cap stretched and pulled too far down on her head.. The woman was pulling her splayed fingers through my wife's hair.

"When was the last time you cut your hair?," she squawked, her overly red lips curled in a leer. 

My wife recoiled in horror. "I'm thinking of cutting it right now!," she gagged out her reply, "Or washing it, at the very least!"

"Oh no, no, no.," the woman continued, her mouth bent in a crooked half-smile, "Your hair is so long and beautiful. How long has it been since you cut it?" She reached out in an attempt to grab another mittfull of my spouse's lengthy tresses. My wife cringed and stepped further back, nearly pressing her back against the glass display cases.

Finally, the woman gave up her barrage of questions, released Mrs. P's hair and started towards the exit — still muttering about long hair and haircuts. My wife was visibly distressed, pacing about and shaking her head, trying the rid herself of any residual filth this woman may have left in her free-form manual combing of my wife's mane.

"Who does that?," Mrs. P exclaimed, "Who touches another person's hair? Who feels it's their right to touch another person? Who grabs and pulls a stranger's hair?" She was simultaneously angry and nauseous. She hurried me along in my baked goods selection, saying she was anxious to get home and scrub the memory of that creep out of her scalp. I paid for our purchase and we sped home to a waiting and healing bottle of shampoo.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com