Erik J Skinner

It all started with a headache.

(video: suggested listening while reading the tale)

Most of yesterday I had a killer headache. Finally in the evening it subsided when I found my last couple Tylenol tablets. Little did I know, the headache would be back full force as I woke up this morning. There were no more pain killers left in the apartment I had to do something about it. And deposit my last paycheck. So out is where I went.

It snowed in Colorado yesterday. The slight melting from who-knows-what, yet it still being cold as an otter pop meant that my car was encased in a shell of ice. I hadn’t prepared for this. I scraped away the ice as my hands slowly lost their feeling. Well, actually they gained more and more feeling. The feeling of “F%## it’s cold!”

Thinking I had sufficiently scraped my windshield, I got back in my car and turned on the wipers to clear the rest of the loose snow and stuff. They didn’t budge. They were still frozen to the windshield. I then foolishly used my scraper thingy as a lever to pry the driver’s side wiper blade loose from its captor. I say foolishly because this instantly lead to me breaking the blade from the arm.

I cleared the windshield the best I could with the brush end of the scraper, which totally isn’t my style, too much work, and headed off to the bank. The actual bank experience was uneventful, except for the following conversation with the teller.

“Having a good week?” he asked.
“Yeah, so far,” I replied.
“Almost halfway over,” he added.

I gave him a weird look. The bank opens at 9. This was 9:15am. On Tuesday. In what kind of messed up world is that anywhere near half way over?

Anyway, my check safely deposited I started my car and it did that thing where the wiper blades make one sweep when you start the car. This made me go “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” The terror of having a bladeless wiper arm careening along my fairly new windshield… It left trail of water which made it impossible to tell if it had scratched or not. Sure I could have been able to tell if it was scratching the windshield from the sound it made, but I couldn’t hear because I was going “NOOOOOOO!!!!”

I had to get new wiper blades immediately for fear of another bladeless wiper arm scrape the next time I started my car. Off to Super Target.

I admit, I have never bought wiper blades for this car before. I had no idea what size they were, so I did the only sensible thing… I took the blade I broke off in with me. It didn’t help me one bit. I couldn’t tell where the blades ended in the package, so I compared where the connection point was. This method determined that 24 inch blades were for me.

I purchased two new blades because honestly, the old blades were on their last legs anyway. It was as if they had been in an explosion that destroyed some other car, and then got moved onto my car because they still kind of worked. Or I thought they worked. It would turn out, I didn’t know what I was missing.

Upon fitting the new blades , I discovered that 24 inch blades are at least 2 inches too big. The passenger side wiper, after performing some wiper blade gymnastics to get around the antennae onto the windshield surface, hang over the edge of the windshield by an inch. The driver’s side blade lay almost but not quite on top of the passenger’s side blade. I had made a terrible mistake… but I didn’t want to deal with going inside to return my two already opened new wiper blades. How was I going to explain why I opened both of them before realizing they were too big? I have a hard time admitting I’m an idiot. Except for online. I figured I’d give it a shot anyway and see if they worked.

I pulled the lever, and it was as if the gates of heaven opened.They glided along like figure skaters. They plopped back into their ready position, their dangerously close proximity apparently not a problem at all. It was glorious.

And then I did some other stuff that wasn’t nearly as interesting. The end.

Note: For those wondering, my headache has once again subsided. Today is going to be a great day.

This is the story about why I will never get my hair cut at the Super Cuts in Lone Tree, CO ever again.

It was a typical day of errands for me, my hair had gotten shaggy as it usually does over time and I needed a hair cut. As is standard in most hair cut establishments, I wrote my name on the sign-in sheet and sat down. I spent some time feigning interest in the magazines that closest matched (not at all) my interests, Sports Illustrated. To my right sat a woman and her two hyper-active children. That is, the woman was seated, and her children were running around, jumping off the chairs, and overall showing signs of needing medication, better parenting or a combination of both. Otherwise the waiting area was empty.

After waiting a few minutes, a patron had their hair finished and paid, you know the usual ending to a hair cut visit. The stylist then looked at me and asked “Ready?” I nodded and said, “Sure am.” Let it be noted that this was a rare occasion that I have had my hair cut at a place like this by a man.

I sat myself down in the chair and as he draped the reverse cape around me he asked, “So Ray, how would you like your hair cut today?”

What? I could have sworn I wrote down my name (Erik, not Ray) on the list. Then I realized, he didn’t ask me “Ready?” he asked me “Ray?” But it was too late, as I tried to piece together the situation I instinctively listed my ideal requirements for my hair.

The fact of the matter was I jacked someone’s place in line.

I assumed if one of the hyper-active children was Ray, his mother would have chimed in and objected immediately. Ray must be some other guy who instead of sitting there and waiting went across the parking lot to kill some time picking up a thing or two at Super Target. I was in the clear, or so I thought.

Never before had a stylist talked to me as much as this man did. And never had a stylist refered to me BY NAME (the wrong name) with every statement. Any moment I imagined Ray would walk in, hear the stylist calling me Ray, check the list to see his name in his handwriting crossed off, get pissed and punch me in the nose. But even if the stylist stopped calling me Ray by the time the Real Ray arrived, there was something else…

There were two other stylists that were well on their merry way with their hair cuttees before I took my place on the barbary throne. Any moment one of them could finish and call the next name on the list… Mine. The last name on the list. The stylist would shrug and start towards the back for a coffee break. Ray would then get up and ask, “What about me?” They would investigate the list and punch in the nose.

Needless to say, this soon became the most stressful haircut I have ever endured. I would cringe every time I heard the bells hung on the door handle jangled. Luckily it was only the hyper-active children playing with the bells like a cat. But then a man entered. One of the stylists greeted him, “Go ahead and write your name on the list,” to which he responded, “Oh I’ve already signed in, thanks!” and sat down in the waiting area.

This was Ray. The man I was pretending to be. At this point all I cared about was getting the hell out of there before any of the other folks still getting their hair cut. It didn’t matter how my hair looked when he gave me the mirror to the back of the head check.

The gods were on my side as I was the first one finished. I hopped up and scooted over to the cash register crossing my fingers that the man wouldn’t call me Ray again as he closed my transaction.

Then I realized, my name clearly isn’t Ray on my credit card. The jig is up, a punch in the nose was inevitable. But by some merciful twist of fate, I discovered a crisp 20 dollar bill laying in my wallet. I slapped it down on the counter, “Keep the change,” and shuffled out the door.

I can only imagine the aftermath that ensued in my absence. I decided I would never return to this store for fear of the stylists present that day recognizing the man who pretended to be Ray.