On Getting A Haircut At A Barber School

     Page Two Hundred Five.
     I go to a barber school to get my haircut. I know that may sound weird considering the fact that I manage a beauty salon. You'd figure I'd get my haircut right at work. But many years ago I worked at a salon which was recognized by Clairol International as being one of the 3 finest salons in Northeast Ohio. While there, all my co-workers and I were encouraged to go elsewhere to have our hair done. The thinking was, observe how much better we are than our competition and if you do see something they do better, we should know about it.
     I still live by that rule. It makes sense. And by going to a school, I get to practice my interpersonal communication skills. The vast majority of all problems in a beauty salon can be traced back to poor communication between client and stylist. Either the client didn't explain properly what was desired or the hairdresser wasn't listening properly. By going to a school I'm constantly getting somebody new; someone who's never done my hair before. I have to start from scratch each time. It keeps me on my toes and aware of the importance of language so I can be more objective on my job.
     I never tell them that I'm a hairdresser going on 33 years, beauty salon manager or licensed cosmetology instructor. That would intimidate them waaaaaay to much. They only know that I'm a private chef (who's currently unemployed). I typically get a haircut which is either perfectly correct or very close. And let me tell you, some of those students are fresh and new. I've been one of the first haircuts a couple of them ever gave.
     As long as I explain properly, as long as they listen properly, I'm not too concerned about technical ability. I'd suggest to anybody that they be very aware of how they explain themselves when in a beauty salon or barber shop. Words are so important there.

Feeding A Fifteen Year Old Update #4

     Page One Hundred Sixty-Eight.
     Well, the kid is back in my life.
     Just to get you all up to speed, last summer, June of 2013, I was hired for a short-term gig cooking for a 15 year old boy a couple of times per week. Shem lost both of his parents a couple years ago to drugs and alcohol. He was taken in by his mother's best friend and promptly began acting up. He's a particularly charming and kind-hearted kid but, predictably, very angry. The area where he consistently acted out the most was food. The Foster mom, Deb, is an older women and former hippie who's single, vegetarian and admittedly no kind of cook. All the kid's food would become take-out or frozen. To be sure, it was good quality, but no kind of home-cooking. And home cooking is what he really craved. When the parents were sober they were apparently good cooks, especially the dad. The kid has euphoric memories of that food and romanticizes it. So, of all the things for him to raise hell about with Deb, it's food. (For the complete back story on this situation, you can read my blog: pages 97; 98; 99; 106 and 125 if desired.)
     So last June, Deb called me. We're long-time acquaintances but she didn't realize until talking with some mutual friends that this type of job is right up my alley. I proceeded to cook for him a few times per week until he left for summer camp a month later. We had a shaky start but but then became good pals. After returning from camp, he moved in with one of his two older brothers. The oldest is in and out of jail; he's very much duplicating the pattern of their parents. Middle brother lives with his girlfriend one building away from Deb. He's in mostly good shape. He's in school studying pre-law and is reasonably stable. So the kid moved in with him long-term. Yeah, right.
     Older brother didn't put up with the kid's crap. Also, girlfriend's younger brother lived with them as well. (I don't know that story. Some things are just none of my business. But I'll probably eventually hear it anyhow.) So it was one crowded apartment, and filled with two teenage boys and two very young twenty-somethings to boot. Golly gosh gee, how homey and cozy! So the kid wanted to move back in with Deb which he did last month. But she put her foot down and changed some of the rules. He's mostly been abiding by the new constitution but still raises hell about the food. Deb never phoned me because she thought that I was busy with other gigs, particularly the family for whom I cooked and nannied during the last few years. She didn't realize that they didn't resume me after their boys got back from summer camp this last autumn.
     So I had a holiday gathering last weekend and invited Deb. We got to talking and so forth. Long story short, she phoned me this morning after speaking with the kid and wants to rehire me long-term, four days per week.
     This 15 year old kid is going to have his own personal chef making his dinners and school lunches. Must be nice.
     The fact is, It'll be good for him and me. I have EXTENSIVE experience working with troubled and at-risk youth and he did come to trust me and told me so. He consistently refuses counseling which the school and Deb are not happy about at all. Yet, he did tell me a certain amount of his business. The fact is, there are certain things I'm good at and kids are one of them. I have a former brother-in-law you used to refer to me as a child psychologist. Though I don't have the sheepskin to prove it, I am really good at dealing with those little monsters know as children. This blog isn't named How To Cook Children* for nothing.
     And it'll be good for me 'cause I need the cash. I'm busy looking for one full-time job right now as I'm getting sort of sick of the multiple part-time gigs. I've done that for a while and it's wearing thin. But a little extra money in the meantime is a happy thing. And who knows how long before I find a job anyhow. I'm trying to get into corporate event planning here in Cleveland. The jobs definitely exist but getting them is hard. So, anything to pay the rent in the meantime... (If you know anybody in corporate event planning here in Cleveland or anybody in a related field, please feel free to pass along my name. I'll be in your eternal debt. I'll mail you some homemade Chicken Paprikash.)

*Nutritious Food They'll Eat
   

On Looking For Work

     Page One Hundred Thirty-Six.
     Does anybody have work for an under-employed male nanny/private chef?
     I just found out that my job with the three princes and their family, which was supposed to resume right about now, has been postponed indefinitely because one of the boys isn't testing up to par. Mom has figured out a way to stay home and spend more time with the boys this year and really work with them on academics. Therefore, no need for Jeremy.
     I went over to pick up my large wok and some fondue pots and had a long talk with dad. As far as the family's concerned though, my lay-off is purely temporary. "Jeremy, we consider you part of the family. We're going to have you over for dinner, regularly. Though, it'll taste better if you make it." 
     So, who knows what the future holds? In the meantime, believe it or not, I'm actually doing interior painting. I'm quite good at that sort of thing, I just don't talk about it much. In fact, I already have a couple of large jobs lied up. The painting is on top of the beauty salon. But, I really miss cooking for a large family.
     Do you know anybody in Cleveland who needs a male nanny/private chef?

Beef Stroganoff? Child's Play.

     Page Sixteen.
     I do have some kind of nerve. I'm this little pipsqueak hired to be the help and suddenly I'm destroying the party food. But I do know what I'm doing in the kitchen. Don't ask me to evaluate the food if you don't want me to answer with actions not words.
     Winter: early '83. A wonderful Salon: Alpha-Omega client who I was particularly fond of hired me to be the party help at her mother's birthday party. Jenny's husband picked me up at 5PM and they acquainted me with their beautiful Shaker Heights kitchen. (Sidebar: that home is right around the corner from where I've nannied and cooked the three little princes since February, 2011.) The Beef Stroganoff was simmering upon my arrival. I was introduced to Mom, the guest of honor, and then I was told of my duties. The party got started and I washed cups and prepared salad plates. It was a modest sit-down dinner, 20-25 or so.
     Prior to serving time is tasting time. So long about 8, the guests start filing into the kitchen to sample the Stroganoff. Everyone needs to make sure that it's just so. Everyone tastes. Everyone hems. Everyone haws. 
     "Hmm. It's good but... It just needs something. Do you know what it needs?"
     "No. I don't know what it needs. Maybe she knows what it needs."
     "No, I don't know what it needs. Could it need more of this?"
     "No. I don't think it needs more of this. I think it needs more of that."
     I'm sure that NASA didn't put as much thought into the Apollo flights as was going on in this Shaker Heights home over that Stroganoff. Finally, Jenny said "Jeremy, you know food. Will you sample this and tell us what it needs?"
     I sauntered over and tasted. You could have heard a pin drop. Didn't say a word; just took a couple of steps to my right and picked up a full but opened bottle of Robert Mandavi from the gleaming countertop. I proceeded to pour most of the bottle into the Stroganoff. I then tasted again. "It's done." I declared. Jenny was white as a ghost. She tasted again and said, "That's just what it needed. Thanks, Jeremy."
     The party proceeded, all the guests were well fed and Mom had a good time. I did a fine job and Jenny gave me a large tip. She'd hire me again and recommend me to others. I was a little pipsqueak, but I do know food.

Breast Cancer

     Page Fourteen.
     Late autumn of '08....
     My oldest sister spent a lot of time with the Stones when she was a teen. They lived a mile away, had a ton of kids and Mom was into dance. My sister, Louise*, was very good school friends with two of the daughters and had dance in common with Mom. So from the early 1960's, the Stone's home was one of Louise's homes as well. The Stone girls also spent a certain amount of time at our place. Which means that they saw me in diapers. (My diapers were always hanging somewhere around my knees according to EVERYBODY.)  
     Through word of mouth (which means it's a separate story) one of those daughters called me in autumn of '08 to help her and her family. Shawna had recently been diagnosed with Breast Cancer, was a full-time pediatrician, had three kids - two still at home, a non-emotional husband, a cat and a cluttered house. She felt that if she had some help with dinner and the girls it would give her a break so she could enjoy her life. She certainly knew my family and had been updated to my current resume. So, she called me and explained the situation.
     About two or three months after I started, she went in for her surgery. She'd decided to have a double mastectomy even though the ca wasn't that advanced. She felt that with her family history it was better to be safe than sorry so she took the radical step.
     Perhaps two days after arriving home, we were standing in the kitchen, talking about the procedure. Now, let me remind you, she had vivid memories of my naked two year old body Also, she was ten years older than me, so in her mind I was an old friend, regardless of the fact that I had no old memories of her. Additionally, anyone who has any number of conversations with me will eventually pick up on the fact that I have an aptitude for and high comfort level with medicine, simplistic and uneducated as it is. So midway through our conversation, she unbuttons her blouse to show me all her bandages.
     I've seen a lot over the years. I worked in the hospital and saw many bandages, wounds and various states of black & blue. But I simply wasn't prepared for her to show me what she showed me. And I guess my expression illustrated my discomfort. She immediately said, "I shouldn't have shown you my bandages, should I've, Jeremy?"
     "I just wasn't prepared."
     "I understand." With that, she buttoned back up and we continued our conversation.
     I've always felt bad that I was perhaps inappropriately uncomfortable. I certainly always try to be as supportive and empathetic as I can be to anyone who's having medical problems of any nature. It just took me by surprise. I'm positive that my discomfort was absolutely nothing compared to her discomfort, fear, anger anxiety, etc.
     It's now four years later. I saw her at temple recently and she's doing great. Just a couple more years 'till she retires. She said she's counting down the months. She wants to travel.


     *Incidentally, all names in these blogs are fake except my own. I do this to protect the guilty. Everyone knows my guilt so I don't need protecting. 

Tater Tots

     Page Seven.
     What would the current world situation be if not for the invention of Tater Tots? I think that Tater Tots have much more to do with the current global economy, the split of the two Koreas and Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby" than we may realize.
     Taters were invented in the early 1950's and gradually gained in popularity until they became a pop culture staple by about the 70's or so. I ate my first one while in my twenties as my family did frozen french fries but not frozen tots. I prepared my first batch while being a live-in Nanny for the Shapiro boys, then I subsequently ate said Tot. They are one of the tastier imitation foods out there, I will admit. And as far as it goes, there isn't TOO much plastic involved in their production, it could be far worse.
     I first heard about the "Tot Casserole" in 2005 while at a convention for Activities Professionals. Some women at my table were talking about different versions of the casserole and I was stunned by the concept. Brown some ground beef and dump it in a casserole. Then pour on some Cream of Anything soup. Then pour on a bag of Tots. Finally, slice up some Velveeta and lay that on top. Shove the whole mess in the oven and bake till dead. This concept goes against everything I stand for as a private chef. Now honestly, I LOVE white trash food, I really do, and I recognize its necessary place in the world, but the Tot Casserole doesn't even sound good. Perhaps it's just me.
     While out with friends the other night, we ended up at a nice bar/restaurant here in Cleveland Heights, the rather sophisticated Cleveland suburb in which I reside. On the menu, this place has Tater Tots listed as their potato accompaniment instead of fries. They actually used the words Tater Tots which I'm positive are trademarked. I simply couldn't believe that. Upon research I discovered that some fast food joints also serve the Tot, but this was no fast food spot. So this place actually cooks a handful of real Tots and then charges five bucks for it; they make no false claims that these things are anything other than Tots which in the store are $3.59 a bag. What a fabulous way to get rich.
     We all know that Napoleon Dynamite is a fan of the tot. but he doesn't like them mashed.
     At a personal chef job I once had, I was occasionally asked to make real, home-made Tater Tots, as in: from scratch. They were the types of things my great grandmother might recognize as food, and they were pretty good too. They were a little bit of a hassle and slightly time consuming to prepare but they were quite tasty and well worth the time. (Actually, they were scrumpdelicious.) When I saw the restaurant menu the other day, I was expecting this to be the fare offered, but no. Real live honest to God Tots were on the plates. Whatever.
     So you see my friends, the evidence suggests that indeed Tater Tots are in fact partially responsible for Vanilla Ice's rise and fall. Nasa is still trying to discover if Tots have anything to do with Black Holes and Quasars.

The Test

     Page three.
     A couple of decades ago, while working somewhat full-time as a free-lance hairdresser, I went to a client's home early one cold Saturday morning to give a haircut. I'd been cutting Dune's hair for a few years and had also done his wife's hair for a while. In fact, I started first with her, Lorna, then I became his stylist as well, then she dropped me. But over the next many years while doing Dune's hair in the kitchen Lorna and I became better and better friends.
     The Saturday in question, I arrived with my scissors and comb and was sitting and chatting with them in the living room relaxing with a cup of coffee prior to cutting. (MANY of my hair clients invited me to sit and chat in the living room prior to cutting for some reason. Still not sure why.) So, I'm on the sofa and they're in the two Queen Anne chairs opposite. The fire is roaring in the fireplace as happens in Cleveland in January and Misty, the big dog, is nuzzling up to me to get an improved pet and snuggle. Suddenly, appearing at the bottom of the steps is Miss Gwendolyn, the beautiful three year old Princess come to survey her domain. In most universes there's nothing unusual here. In what universe DOESN'T a three year old Princess appear at the bottom of the steps on a Saturday morning to evaluate her domain? None... except that one little detail separates this occurrence from the norm. Princess Gwendolyn is stark naked.
     Now, I'm perfectly comfortable with nudity, it exists in God's world. How many diapers have I changed over the years? Only the Pope knows for sure. But I was still a little shocked by this simply 'cause it was out of context. I just wasn't expecting it was all. But I greeted her warmly as she saw me and smiled brightly. We were very good friends after all. In fact, she rushed over to me with barely a nod of "Hello" to her Mommy and Daddy. This was when the GRE/MCAT began.
     You see, she then jumped up on the sofa and replaced Misty to get a better pet and snuggle. Now I have a Naked-As-A-Jaybird little girl snuggling up against me and I'm scared to death to touch her in any places that are typically covered by a bathing suit for fear of doing any long-term psychological damage and meanwhile her Mommy and Daddy are facing me five feet away with enormous, huge grins each. Seems they find my nervous anguish funny. It was as if they were saying non-verbally, "Okay Jeremy, you're so cool? You can handle any kid event? Let's see how you handle this one. Show our daughter how much you love her while completely ignoring her nudity and put the awkwardness of this situation up on a shelf somewhere."
     I gingerly wrapped my right arm around Gwendolyn's shoulder and let it cup her right arm and squeezed her closely as she just told me all the important events of her life. Meanwhile Mommy and Daddy just smiled like there was no tomorrow, suppressing uproarious laughter, I'm sure. Modern parents just mystify me.
     She eventually finished her stories, I eventually did Dune's hair and eventually my day continued. No big whoop. This was just one more of those life stories that begins nowhere and ends nowhere. The thousands of days I'll walk this planet will primarily be comprised of stories just like this. But I remember it and I'm glad that little girl and her parents (cruel as they were) liked and trusted me as much as they clearly did. In fact, many years later, Lorna and Dune would hire me to nanny their kids and cook for the family while she would finish her M.A. and he would work long hours.
     Thankfully, as a high school student Gwendolyn would be much more appropriate. And we continued to have a special relationship I'm glad to say. (I'm sure she has no recollection of this story.)