First a little background, about something important. It’s about my hair. You see, before we recently moved, I had a barber Steve and Steve took good care of me. He would cut my hair. My wife would say it looked sexy. She was being kind. I would report the good news to Steve and we would share a smile. All was good and I had pretty good hair. Well, for me it was good hair. Let’s keep this in perspective. Let’s cut me a break. Ha! How about that, a “cut” reference and I was talking about hair. Honestly, sometimes these things just seem like gifts from above. Oh yeah, speaking of “heaven above…”
So we moved a while back and I lost my barber, so I have not been thrilled about getting a new haircut, finding a new barber, trying to make small talk with a stranger that is holding sharp scissors close to my oh so vulnerable large ears. Oh, I shudder to think about the gruesome possibilities. Not to mention my natural tendency without Steve to get bad haircuts. As a result, my hair has grown out. Grown out a lot. Add in the touches of grey around the ears and I’ve taken on a distinct middle aged disheveled dude look. Unfortunately, not the George Clooney direction that I wish I had headed. No, throw in my low v-neck hoodie and I am sporting a bit of a Michael Landon “Highway to Heaven” years look. Not really what I was looking for, but not bad. Sort of a 80s prophet look. Again, not what I was looking to achieve. Steve the Barber, where art thou? If it be thy will, appearest thou with your trusty shears.
Never mind all of that, earlier today, I was baking up a storm and I happened to look out the kitchen window into the backyard at my 7-year-old son Ben, who was skillfully climbing a tree. Pretty high up, too. That’s when it crossed my Michael Landon hairy head that I should really subscribe to a health care network and all of those troublesome details associated with a move and whatnot. You know broken bones looked to be pretty likely in the near future.
Continuing to bake, I saw with my own eyes, which are located pretty close to my Highway to Heaven looking hair, that Ben had headed into the woods behind our house to explore with his older brother, 9-year-old Sam. Boys being boys. Romping through the underbrush of the woods. All was good. Michael Landon would have smiled.
A short while later, Ben rushed into the house in a bit of a panic. I asked what was wrong and in what was actually a very composed manner for a 7-year-old lad, Ben relayed that Sam had cut himself bad on a broken bottle. Now it’s not like our neighboring forest is layered in shards of glass and it’s unlikely that they were involved in some bad barroom fight, so what really happened in the woods may never be known, but Ben had most likely relayed the story well and my dad instincts kicked in. Michael Landon would have been proud.
Throwing on some shoes, I raced into the woods and found Sam crying on the ground with a significant gash in his leg above the knee. Turning one of his gloves inside out, I covered the wound and carried him into the house. It was one of those cuts where I had managed to stop the bleeding, but it looked like a bad piece of steak. Certainly something that I was unsure how to fix on my own. Guardian angels may have been present, but no reported signs of Victor French.
Between Charlene and I, by the way Charlene is not into the Michael Landon 80s haircut and this is not a good sign, divided up tasks and I headed out with Sam to find an urgent care shop open on an early Sunday evening. Since there were no gushers of blood, all parties were gradually calming down, when Sam asked if he could go to the bathroom before getting to the doctor. He did not wanted to go immediately upon his arrival. Um, really? Now? Okay, options included ignoring this request and making a panicked lad even more uncomfortable bladder-wise or finding a public restroom. That’s when I saw an Omnipresent suburban Starbucks. Showing Sam the restroom, I ordered a short caramel latte and looked for an extra push of caffeine. Yep, Michael Landon would not have used the restroom without ordering something either, it just would not have been right.
Long story short (You call this short? My friend, this was no Half Pint of a tale), seven stiches later, Sam and I were headed home. The dear Lord had kept us all safe, bodies were on the mend, my hair was still too long, but somedays even a small detour onto the Highway to Heaven is all it takes to remind you of how lucky you really are.
