What you see is not always what you get?

It was time for me to go get my haircut.  Not many more years remain for this ritual, with my hair rapidly thinning out.  I can even feel that there is not much on top because it doesn't seem like it is raindrops falling on my head, but more like pebbles being thrown at me from above by some impish angels!

Being short on dollars these days, I sometimes think that maybe I should try cutting my own hair, like how Gandhi experimented in his early attempts to understand self-reliance.  Anyway, the inexpensive place that I go to was crowded; of course! There is no question of making appointments there--you go and wait your turn.  Not that I have anything pressing to do, but waiting for a haircut is something that I can't seem to tolerate a lot.

So, off to the more expensive place.

I was tempted to ask the girl at the front desk about the charge for a shave versus for a haircut.  You know, that old joke: a guy asks the barber what the rates are.  The barber says, "five dollars for a shave and fifteen for a haircut."  The guy then says, "ok, shave my head off."

But, I resisted that urge to joke.  Successfully.  Especially because there is no shave at this place and the lame joke would have fallen even flatter.

The early-thirtyish woman who led me to her corner of the business wore one of the highest heels I have ever seen, other than in movies or photos.  And hot-pink shoes at that.

"I am all slippin' and slidin' while walkin'" she exclaimed to her colleagues, and I decided to give more gap between us as we walked.

As the process got underway, I knew what was coming.  Questions about what I do, about my family, the weather, the dogs, ... that is one reason why I postpone getting a haircut as much as possible.  The service providers want to engage in chit-chat, while I feel trapped in the chair.  They might as well serve me my final meal and flip the switch on!

Polite as I am, I reply, but clearly indicating that I am not interested in a whole lot of talking.  Meanwhile, she is having a couple of parallel conversations with other colleagues who are working on their own clients' heads.  I am always amazed at this--I have enough trouble keeping track of one conversation, and these women have simultaneous conversations with a gazillion others!

"I like your shoes" one says, to which my hairdresser replies, "thanks; I want to make sure I am comfortable in this before I take it with me to Cambodia."

Now my ears get more attentive. Cambodia?  Not often does one hear about Cambodia.  The odds are pretty good that she is going there for some volunteer work, I thought to myself.  Perhaps through her church, too.  When my neighbor went to Mali a few years ago, it was through his church.  Otherwise, come on, how many people do we run into in our lives who declare they are headed to Mali for a vacation?

"I will be taking my flats too" she continued.

When it seemed like a break in that conversation, I chipped in. "So, when are you leaving for Cambodia?"

"In two weeks."

"Cool!  What's taking you to Cambodia?"

She is going there because she is committed to helping out victims of sex-trafficking.  And, yes, through her church.  She will go there to teach those girls and young women hairdressing as a vocational skill.  And also help them transition away from illegal drugs.

All that is hard work.  Emotionally tough work.  It is incredibly easy for me to write analytically about any of the global problems, and express my outrage.  Righteous indignation!  Armchair philosophizing is all I do. People like her, on the other hand, take it as their responsibility to actually do something.  Sure, there is an evangelical aspect to that work; but, if she doesn't go, it is not as if I am all set to go work there with the victims of sex-trafficking, right?

I am back home blogging about it; I do have to ask myself what good does this act of mine accomplish!

Off the top of my head ...

"Any Thanksgiving plans?" she asked as I sat down for a haircut.

Yep, we balding men also need haircuts every once in a while, even if nobody notices the difference between the pre- and post-haircut!

She was a new one.  I had not seen her before, leave alone getting my hair cut by her.  Her hair had a fluorescent color.  I am always impressed with the courage that people have to walk around with strange hair color.  I can't even bring myself to wearing trousers that are in colors other than the mainstream.  What a wuss I am!

It is not an easy question to answer.  For one, I don't know if she is for or against all the hype over Thanksgiving.  What if she has Native American blood and she detests the genocide of her people that resulted from the interactions with the white folk?  Or, if she has no family and events like Thanksgiving makes her depressed ... life for others is never the same as anything comparable to life as we might experience it.

"Oh, just a low key thing ... just by ourselves," I replied. 

Note that I gave nothing there.  Nothing about who is included in the "ourselves."  What "low key" meant.  Small talk can involve a whole lot of back-and-forth without saying any damn thing; something that took me a while to figure out, and which always baffles most visitors from other countries.

"Me too.  My sister and I go have a buffett at ..." I couldn't catch the name of the place that she mentioned.  But the details don't matter in such small talk.  It is, instead, all about the contextual  back-and-forth.

"Oh cool!"

"Yeah, I am a Native American, and I am not much into Thanksgiving."

I would never have guessed that she is Native American.  But, the intermixing means that even people looking white can have a good deal of native blood.

"My mother is from here.  She belongs to the ... tribe."  Again, I couldn't clearly hear the details.  "My father lives in the reservation in Oklahoma."

A simple haircut for a balding man.  The five minutes reveal a huge world behind the person cutting my hair.

"Drive safely.  Too many people rushing," she said as she dusted me off.

One of my many favorite topics this is--people rushing madly.  "I know, I have no idea where everybody is rushing to."

The haircut and the chat cost me ten dollars.  I added a two dollar tip.

"I appreciate you," she said.

A few minutes into the drive, the car ahead of me came to a complete halt.  An accident that had just happened, with smoke rushing out of the scene.  A damaged car smack in the middle of the road.  A dented car on one side, and another dented car on the other side.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, I, like other drivers, turned around towards alternate routes.

After the wait, it was quicker than a young man's first!

I popped in for a haircut.

"It will be about a 25 minutes wait" she yelled on top of the machine noise.  I put my name down and decided to wait.

We were five of us waiting.  Two were doing whatever with their smartphones.  One was leafing through the photographs--I wanted to tell her that this was a $9.99 haircut place and, therefore, it was not about styling.  Two others sitting next to each other were chatting, but they seemed to be in a relationship.  I was watching all of them them and the two women working on the two customers in the two chairs.

I could have gone to the old style barbershop in town.  Two old guys take care of the haircuts, and the customers are men.  Unlike the stereotypes, the men talk with each other--even the strangers.  Rarely does anyone ever pull out a smartphone.  But, by the time I get there after my work day, well, those old guys will be long gone.

Waiting at a haircut place has changed even in the old country.  Back then, it was always an interesting place.  Nobody seemed to be in a hurry.  The barber always took his sweet time to get things going.  He would pause in between to exchange political comments with some other customer.  Or, he would yell at the boy to get him tea or coffee.  It was his kingdom and he made sure to exercise power over his subjects.

Not anymore, however.  Now, even in the old country everybody is in a hurry.  The television is always on and at the loudest possible volume.  Customers don't talk--they either watch TV or use their phones.

Finally it was my turn.  I knew it would get interesting because my name ain't Sam Murphy ;)

She looked at the sign-up sheet.  Her face lifted up.

"I don't know how to say your name" she said with a smile.

I walked up and pronounced my name.

"I want a regular haircut to even things up" I said.  It is my usual line these days.  I am not one for any comb-over and other such shenanigans.  I am bald and am here!

"And when you are done, I want to look handsome.  Like George Clooney."  That too is my usual line.  These lines work always because it seems like it is always a different person every single time I show my head there--except that one time.

She laughed.  We barely traded the mundane "how was your day" small-talk when she was all done with me.  I suppose I am way balder than I can see in the mirror!

"Ok, you look handsome alright.  Don't you go chasing women now" she chuckled.

I laughed.  I paid up. I left.  I had waited enough.

If only losing my hair is as easy as it was to lose my religion!

"Haircut $9.99. Walk-ins only. No appointments" was the message on a board on the sidewalk as I was driving.

Though I had not planned on it, I turned into that parking lot right away.  In my budget-constrained world, which seems to get smaller with every passing day post-divorce, this was too good an offer to let go.

It is possible that such signs have always been on display.  But, I suppose we are oblivious to all kinds of messages around us, and begin to spot them only when our minds are ready to see them.

Yesterday, I saw the sign.  Hallelujah!

I walked in. There was nobody. Empty chairs. That made me worry--maybe this is a place where one gets only awful haircuts.  Hence, the $9.99?  I know I am no George Clooney, but I didn't want to walk out of that place looking even less presentable than is already the case.

A young woman materialized out of nowhere.

"Sign in please" she said.

Seriously? When there is nobody waiting?  Is she related to Ramamirtham?

I signed my name on the book. And right away she led me to a chair.

"A regular haircut, please.  Not too short but on the shorter side, as long as you even things out" I said as I set my glasses on the table.

Ever since I started balding, the problem is more with the uneven growth than anything else.  Increasingly, it depresses me a tad when I think that the years of spending on haircuts will not be many more. I would rather have some hair and pay for haircuts than not to have hair at all.  But, hey, it is all in the package that life is.

I hoped that she would not try to engage me in a conversation.  But, of course, she did what all people in her profession do--ask questions and make comments.  Why can't they simply leave me alone?  Are the first lessons in beauty school about how to talk, talk, and talk with customers?

The usual questions: about work, the weather, the economy.  America is one small talk country!

I would rather ask questions than answer.  "So, are you a native Oregonian?" I asked her.  Odds are that she was not--a simple majority of Oregonians were born outside the state.

"No, I am from Wyoming."  Bingo!

"So, do you have family in Wyoming?"

"My grandma lives there."

I did quick mental calculations.  If this woman is 25, then grandma is at least 70-plus. Maybe even eighty.

"How old is your grandmother?"

"63" she replied.

I was stumped.  63!  This had to be a case of having kids when young.  I mean, the math doesn't add up.

I didn't even have to ask. She continued, "she had my mother when she was only 20.  And when I was born my mother was only 20."

"So, did you also have a kid at 20?"

"No, I am childless.  And so is my brother."

"You broke the trend!"

I put my glasses back on.  The haircut hadn't made me any uglier than how I looked when I walked in.

We walked over to the register.  I wondered if I have to sign out as well.  Thankfully, all I had to do was pay.  I handed her a twenty.

"I will take ten from this" she said.

"No, take fifteen and give me five."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am. When a dollar won't get even a cup of coffee!"

I could feel the wind caressing the sides of my head where the hair had been trimmed down.  I wondered how it might feel when it is all gone.  I remembered my experiment from a while ago: in order to mentally prepare for that coming bald appearance, I did undergo that kind of a haircut.

After dinner, I pulled up that photograph to remind myself of the day that is not too far away.  If I live that much longer, that is.

If only Putin knew small talk!

"I am sure you guessed by now I am a native-born Oregonian" I quipped.

I think I am funny and the best part is that I am also the first to laugh at my own "jokes."  It doesn't take much for me to keep me amused!

That was at the haircut place a couple of days ago.  My best find ever--not because they laugh at my jokes.  If you think about it, the women--yes, I have not seen a male personnel there--hold the upper-hand during the few minutes there: I am seated without my glasses while they hold weapons.  Yet, I risk my life (ahem!) with my awful humor.

Rarely ever do I see the same personnel there.  I guess the turnover is high, which should not be a surprise given the $9.99 for a haircut.  But then not ever having the same people is an advantage for me--I can recycle the same old jokes!

One of my standard questions in the mandatory small-talk is "so, you been doing this for a while?"

"Oh, since December."

I wondered whether it was only in December that she got her licence and then started at the entry level position of the haircut business.  I know how it works in the teaching business--the fresh out of school are some of the worst providers of service, when it comes to teaching.  We don't have a freaking clue and we try to put on a show as we learn the tricks of the trade. "As long as she does not lop my ear off" I thought to myself.

She sneezed.  Which then provided another topic for small-talk.  I have come to understand that interesting small-talk is like improv comedy.  Like observational comedy.  The more the talk is about what is happening right then and there, the more engaged the people get.  That context, for instance, was not the place for me to ask her "so, how about that Putin in Crimea?"

When she sneezed, it then became an opportunity to talk about the pollen this time of the year.  "Allergies, eh,"

"Yeah. This year is the first time it is bad."

"Are you an Oregon native, or from somewhere else?"

"A true Oregonian. One of the rare ones" she replied.

Of course, small-talk etiquette means that you lob back the ball.  (Such a language coming from a sports-challenged person!)

"How about you?" she asked me.

Which is when I quipped, "I am sure you guessed by now I am a native-born Oregonian."  And, of course, I chuckled.

"Oh, your accent is only mild" she was gracious.  She knows her trade secret--keep the customer happy.

If only in every interaction in life we brought with us such small-talk etiquette.  We would then always be paying attention to the goings-on and making contextual observations.  To a person who is celebrating, we might say something that will be different from a person dragging his feet--literally or metaphorically.

Maybe the real problem is that we do not know how to engage in small-talk.  Maybe that is the first lesson that Putin needs.  Somebody needs to start a conversation with him with "hey Vlad, it is "get rid of the tartar" and not "get rid of the Tatar."

"Do you have a life?"

"I read your latest post at the blog" a student said as he was heading out.  "Looks like you blog a lot."

I nodded my head as he continued with a smile, "even about your haircut."  Ah, yes, about that $9.99 haircut.

"I was thinking that the professor has lots of time."

 I gave him my usual spiel of how my work is also my hobby and how, therefore, I don't find blogging to be any time consuming work at all as much as I don't find my work to be time consuming either.

"But, you have a life, like family and a life, right?"

That is a difficult question for me to answer.  Because, "life" includes blogging and doing everything else that I do now.

Except during my undergraduate days, when I did very little reading because of the crappy library that my college had, I have always spent (wasted?) time reading and thinking.  Before college, during my school days, I was keen on reading anything other than the regular textbooks, which always made my mother wonder when I ever prepared for exams.  She is right; I rarely did anything that would qualify as serious exam prep work.

In graduate school, I thought I had died and gone to heaven with the awesome libraries on campus.  Yes, in the plural.  Multiple libraries.  I had a tough time choosing my favorites.  There was my favorite spot in the reading room at Doheny:

USC Doheny Library, summer 2009

Or a table by the large glass windows at VKC.  Or the quaint furniture at the philosophy library.  I can imagine that my life would have been super-awesome if only the web and blogging had been invented back then!

Life is what we make of it.  How I enjoy life might not appeal to the next person.  When my cousin was visiting with me a few weeks ago, she felt that my life was too regimented with what I eat and don't eat, and with the walking that I do, and the relatively mess-free home that I maintain.  "Get a life" she said.  "It is ok to be messy, you know."

Reading and thinking and writing naturally led me to write opinion pieces.  Back in Bakersfield, as the newspaper started publishing my pieces, I felt encouraged and perhaps even started flooding the editor's mailbox with my writings.  Blogging would have helped, a lot!  There were a few in the community who even asked me if I worked for the newspaper!

After moving to Oregon, it took me a while to get oriented to the new environs.  Though neighbors, California and Oregon are very different.  Bakersfield's San Joaquin Valley is a world away from the Willamette Valley where I now live.  Once I got a sense of the rhythm of this place, I was off to the races, as they say.

Even in my first year in Oregon, I invited a couple of my faculty colleagues to contribute to my blog.  I was convinced that the more contributors I had, the more we could influence discussions.  But, in retrospect, their decision not to blog--neither with me nor anywhere else--is a telling example of how differently my thoughts are compared with theirs as has been in pretty much everything else at work.

So, when the student asked whether I have a life, all I could do was smile and nod.  There is no way I could have provided such a lengthy explanation, and there is no way in hell that he would have patiently listened to all these either; let us see if he read this ;)

It's what it is

There wasn't a man waiting for a haircut and all the three barber chairs were vacant.  If only the cosmos always worked in my favor.

It is a women-owned business that is an old style barbershop serving only men.  I would never have imagined such a business venture.  Perhaps because haircuts for most men are incredibly simpler than for women, and this way they don't have to deal with the complications of women's hair. 

(But then do African-American men go to this barbershop?  Do these white women know how to deal with an Afro?)

When I lived in California, the state passed a law against discrimination in pricing for haircuts, and it became illegal to charge different prices for men and women.  I thought it was ridiculous that my simple haircut for which they mostly used the buzzing trimmer would cost the same as laborious scissor-snipping for a woman's lengthy ringlets.  So, I moved to Oregon ;)

I walked over to the chair that one of the women pointed to. 

"How do you want your hair cut?"

"A trim all around."

"Do you want me to leave the hair on top or cut that too?"

"Yes, trim that too.  I don't ever try to use that for any comb over."

She laughed but only slightly.  I suppose she imagined a few customers and their efforts to hide their bald domes.

Years ago, when John McCain was running against George Bush in the Republican primaries, I wanted to write to his campaign staff that McCain could get even my vote if only he stopped combing hair over in that awful manner that he did.

That was the time I was beginning to see and feel the male pattern baldness developing on my head. 

A course that I taught had students in the same classroom and students at another off-campus site. The class was held at a television studio-classroom, and images and sounds from the studio were sent in real time to the off campus site, and the video and audio from there were beamed back as well.  The classroom had a camera turned towards the instructor (me) and another from behind me to capture the students. In the monitors in front of me, I could see the images from all the cameras.  And that is when I caught the image from the camera that was behind my back--it showed the back of my head with the (then) thinning hair where the scalp was beginning to shine through.

I knew then that I would face up to it rather than cover it up.  If people were so desperate to hide their baldness, to what extent would they go to cover up far more important things in life?

"It's what it is" I told her.

She nodded in agreement.

As she picked up the tools of her trade, she said after a few seconds "yes, it's what it is."

She repeated those words with such relish that I suspect she will use that line for a long time.

We humans are not always ready to embrace it's what it is.  We are not wired that way.  We almost always want something different from what it is.  The Buddha advised that such a want for things big or small means there will be suffering.  The path forward, to peace and happiness, is not to want but to humbly accept what is in the here and the now.

Though I intellectually and emotionally understand it, it is not easy for me to think about the big hair that I once had, and the full head of grey hair that I would like to have as an old man.  What does the Buddha know about hair anyway?  In all the images as an enlightened soul he is a completely bald man! 

While I fail to practice the Buddha's advice, at least I don't do a comb over!

My hairy self more than 30 years ago!

"Oh, now I remember you" ... it helps to be funny?

The haircut for $9.99 was tempting as I neared the traffic intersection.

I swung into the parking lot.  After all, even if the the people there think I am old enough to be retired, at least they don't charge me much!

"How do you want your hair cut?"

"With a lawn mower" is what I wanted to tell her with a big laugh.

I was polite instead.  "A regular cut to even things out" as I placed my glasses on the counter.

And then, of course, small talk began.

I smiled recalling the cartoon in a recent issue of the New Yorker:

"I've been here before" I told her, though she was not the one that I blogged about.  I guess now it is her turn to feature in my blog!  If only people knew about such crazy Andy Warhol moments!

"You kind of looked familiar" she said.  But, the hesitation in her was obvious.  She was trying to sort through her database of the faces of the people whose hair she has cut over her career.

We talked about the usual stuff.  About the rains in the forecast and the end of summer. About a new academic year beginning. About Thanksgiving. New Year.

"Time goes by so fast" she said.

I shared with her how I had made that kind of a remark about time going by faster as I get older, to which my mother's response was "wait till you get to my age; it gets even faster."

"That is exactly my grandmother said when I was little" she said.

"Ok, you are all set for your classes" she said.

As I reached out for my glasses, I thought I would get back to the wisecracking that I had stayed away from.  "So, when I put these glasses on, will I look like George Clooney?"

Her response was not what I had expected.

"Oh, now I remember you.  You said the same thing last time too."

"Darn!  I should figure out some new lines then."

"No, no. I thought it was funny, and that's why I remembered it."

I bet she said that to comfort me that I am not getting old and repeating myself.

I bet she said that to comfort me that I am not getting old and repeating myself.

I bet she said that to comfort me that I am not getting old and repeating myself.

Ha ha!  Am I funny or what?

After looking at myself in the mirror at home, I think I have a game plan for humor tomorrow.  I imagine going to the optician, who was laughing at everything I said only a few days ago.

"Hey, I have a problem with these new glasses."

"Oh, sorry.  What's wrong?"

"After I started wearing these glasses, the hair on my head fell off and I am now really bald!"

That will make sure the optician never, ever, forgets me, right?

Women smile at me. I don't know who they are!

There are good reasons why people stick to their schedules.  If only I had stuck to mine!

I was about three hours behind schedule for my five mile walk.  Not that I woke up late or that I was doodling around.  It was because of the physical therapy appointment, after which I went for a haircut.

Being off by three hours felt strange.  Something was off.  Even my legs were not marching to that joyful rhythm they usually enjoy.  My mind was wandering all over the place without any focused thought.  What the hell was wrong with me!  All because I was off my schedule?

A late-twenty-something, perhaps an early-thirty-something, was biking from the other direction towards me.  As she got closer, I noticed that she was smiling at me.  A smile that was way too friendly.

I am at a stage in life that when a young woman smiles in a very friendly manner, well, I ain't falling for any trick.  I know that there is somebody right behind me that she is smiling at.  But, I heard no footsteps behind me.  No sound of bicycles either.  I smiled at her anyway; couldn't hurt smiling at people. Especially at young women who are smiling at me.

As she continued with her leisurely pedaling, she continued to smile at me, and I continued to walk smiling at her.  A few seconds after she passed me, I turned around to check.  Nobody behind me.  So, she was smiling at me for real?

Was I supposed to know her?  A former student, perhaps?  But in that case she would have wished me.

Perhaps I had forgotten to zip up?  As if it was the most natural of head and hand movements, I casually checked--all safely locked.

I crossed the river and started walking along the west bank.  A few minutes in, the same young woman on the bike passed me again.  And, with that wonderful smile on her face.  As if she knew me.  I had no clue.  Am I getting so old that I can't even remember beautiful women anymore?

The rest of the walk, I had no idea what my thoughts were and, kaboom, I was over the other bridge and was back on the east side, only a few minutes from home.  Three women were coming in from the other direction, walking and talking at a fast pace.  Yes, both the walking and talking at a fast pace.  As they neared me, all the three said hi in a loud and familiar way.  One added a "oh, hiiiiii."

That "oh, hiiiiii" shook me loose from my unfocused thoughts.  The woman who said that "oh, hiiiiii" seemed really, really familiar.  I figured I was losing my mind, thinking that every other attractive woman on the bike path looked familiar.  But this one really was.

The rest of the few minutes home, I tried to match that "oh, hiiiiii" face with the faces in my mental database.  No match whatsoever.  Meanwhile, that face of the young woman on the bike kept popping up and there was no match for her face either.

I was about a minute away from home when it was the sound of a casino jackpot in my head. I had a match for "oh, hiiiiii."  It was Lori, from the dentist office.  The teacher of mine who made me realize that I had been a bad student by not flossing.  Yet, it took me that long to ID her face?  What the hell is wrong with me?

I reached home.  Hours later, here I am blogging about all that and I have no idea about the young woman on the bike.

From tomorrow, I am going to stick to my schedule.  It is too damn stressful otherwise!

No reason to complain

He brought the hand-held mirror towards me.  Even before he could raise it, I told him "it's ok.  I'm sure it is fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked with a smile.

"Am positive.  Haven't had any reason to complain thus far" I replied.

He put the mirror down on the counter.  I felt him tapping my shoulder, in a warm and friendly manner.  "I wish my wife always said she had no reason to complain" he said with a big laugh.

I joined in the laughter.

That is how my latest haircut session ended.  After that, I got out of the seat, paid up, and left.

I love such unscripted human interactions for the flavor they add to the everyday life.

Like the other day when I was on the bike path.  I overtook a couple--perhaps only a few years older than me--when I heard the man tell the woman, intentionally loudly to make sure I heard him, "if I walked at his pace, I surely will lose a lot of weight."

I turned around and gave them a big smile--a smile that was bigger than what I sport now while typing this.  They chuckled in return.

Or like a few days ago when I was at the checkout counter at my regular grocery store.  Wendy smiled big time and said that she didn't have any jokes for me.  "Hey Kathy, do you have any jokes for Sriram?" she asked.

Kathy, who was at the adjacent counter walked over to me. She tilted her head.  She thought.  "I have a Halloween joke for you."

"Tell me" I said.

"You know from all the jokes that the chicken crossed the road" she paused for the effect.  "But the skeleton did not cross the road.  Why did the skeleton not cross the road?"

As is the custom in such groaner contexts, I asked her, "ok, why did the skeleton not cross the road?"

"Because he had no guts."

We all laughed.

Is it because I am older that I am able to participate in such interactions?  In all these contexts, the other parties were all my age or older.  Were we all able to enjoy those moments only because we are not young?  If we had had these intersections in life when we were in our twenties, it would have been different?

Perhaps to experience life from its silly to the profoundly happy and grieving moments requires one to have lived a few years, witnessed the ups and the downs, and been far and away from where we were born and raised.

It's a wonderful life, indeed!

This, too, shall pass. Unfortunately!

As we were enjoying the tastiest Morrocan sweets and the freshest strawberries, I paused.  "I know I say this a lot, but I want to remind ourselves about the awesome life that we have. With such food in plenty. On a great summer evening."

I am immensely thankful for the life that I have.  If ever I forget how lucky I am, all it takes is one visit to any of my favorite news sites to re-calibrate.

Contrast my life to the life of the kid in this photo:

Source

Even without knowing any backstory, any normal human being with a little empathy would feel terrible for that kid.  A kid with a name and a tragic backstory:

The boy, identified by medical workers as Omran Daqneesh, 5, was pulled from a damaged building after a Syrian government or Russian airstrike in the northern city of Aleppo.

How awful!

Maybe it was his haircut, long and floppy up top; or his rumpled T-shirt showing the Nickelodeon cartoon character CatDog; or his tentative, confused movements in a widely circulated video — gestures familiar to anyone who has loved a child. Or the instant and inescapable question of whether a parent was left alive to give him a hug.
In any event, by Thursday morning, Omran’s image had been broadcast and published around the world

We might share the image and the news. I blog about it. We talk about the kid and the war.  But, the killings continue.  A civil war that has dragged on for years.  Not only have we been witness to the horrors, we do not even want to help those who are fleeing from this hell.

Here in the US, we even have a presidential candidate who proudly vows that his America will not help the refugees--and there are tens of millions of my fellow citizens who even more proudly cheer him and his rhetoric!  We cannot expect any sympathy from that wannabe leader of the free world--after all, he couldn't even stand a crying kid at his rally!

Normal decent humans, unlike that candidate and his followers, will relate to this Syrian kid.

Omran, as he is carried from a damaged building in the dark, could be Everychild. He looks around in confusion, his chubby forearm draped trustingly across the reflective stripe on his rescuer’s back, before he is plopped into the chair at the back of ambulance, lit blindingly white.
He settles into a thousand-yard stare, apparently too stunned to cry. Then he puts a hand to his bloody brow, looks at his palm in surprise, and tries to wipe it on the chair. Then he glances around, as if trying to understand where he is. 

But, it is not as if photographs of kids catalyzed us into humanitarian efforts.  Remember this?

Our lives will continue.  We will have good food. Spend evenings with friends and family.  Go on vacations. Complain about the choppy cellphone signal.  Cry over the sports team that lost.

Meanwhile, adults and kids will continue to die in the brutal civil war:

Cases like Omran’s are a daily sight in eastern Aleppo, several doctors said, but he was lucky in that he made it to a hospital that was still open. ...
A boy lay on the floor, his legs missing. A woman in black put her hand to her mouth in anguish.
Another boy lay on a gurney, soaked in blood, as a clinician worked on him. A few minutes later came another text message: The boy had died. His name was Ibrahim Hadiri, and there was a new photograph of his face, eyes closed. It is not likely to go viral.

Laugh, and whole world laughs with you ;)

"A summer haircut, please" I said as I placed my glasses on the counter and settled into the seat.

This barbershop that I have been frequenting for a few years seems less and less active anymore.  When I walked up, there was only guy at work, in contrast to the three that sometimes have been there trimming and cutting away.  And even that one guy was reading something on his smartphone when I walked up.

I suppose because he hadn't had any customer until me, or perhaps because he is a tad familiar with me by now, he started talking way more than ever before.  I love small talk, especially with people who are very different from me, and there is no better place than a barbershop.  Further it is not as if I am ever in a hurry anyway--no "chop-chop" guy I am!

"Only a couple more years and then you won't have my business" I joked pointing to my balding roof.

"Oh, you have plenty more years, dude" he replied.  The guy is a decade older than me. He refers to me as "dude." Well, this dude also abides ;)

"It seems like only yesterday I had a head full of hair, and it was black, and now I am all grey with a balding head" I said.

He leaned against the counter.  "Isn't it always the case.  Happens fast, doesn't' it!"

"That's what happens when you have children" he joked.  A good chunk of small talk is about talking about serious life stuff, but as if they are all light and fluffy comedy themes.

"I can't blame this one on my daughter" I laughed.

The guy took a step away from my head.  I saw a fuzzy reflection of his grey beard and a thin grey top in the mirror as he seemed to think about his life.  "True.  In my case, it was not the children but three ex-wives and now I am into my fourth marriage."  His frame shook as he laughed.

I recalled how once at the doctor's office the nurse said "your blood pressure is all back to normal after a brief blip up."  "What happened?" she asked.  "The divorce happened" I replied, and we both chuckled.

Laughter is the best medicine they say.  I have come to believe that the reference is not to laughter that results from listening to a joke or from watching Bugs Bunny's antics.  Instead, it is the laughter in everyday life.  It is the laughter about our own misfortunes.  The laughter from an understanding that the whole world and our own existence is a big cosmic joke.
It is funny that we don't always see it that way!

If it is Thursday, it must be science for lunch?

My science craving was a bit too uncontrollable today.  I had no choice but to feed that damn thing.  And, my, what awesome science food I had today!

A regular feature at the Scientific American, of answering science questions, had three awesome questions with wonderful explanations.  It was difficult for me to pick one from the three; if I am really, really, forced to, I would choose this question:

Let's say I'm an alien on a ship 65 million or more light-years away. Using a telescope, I look at Earth and I see dinosaurs living their daily lives. If my ship started travelling towards earth near the speed of light. Would I see the dinosaurs moving faster--fast-forwarded?

Of course, such a question wouldn't matter to those crazy creationists in any religion, who believe that there is nothing called 65 million years ago.  But, for the rest of us, this is one fascinating question.  Yes, an old one--a variation of the old one that Einstein talked about and the one that we were introduced to in high school.  But, I never get tired with any of the variations.  I am always, always, impressed that old man Einstein was so awesome!

So, what is the answer?  Don't be lazy; check it out :)

And then there was another.

It was not a topic I would have guessed would be at the Scientific American.

It was about the great financial collapse. About those complex derivatives and subprime loans and other mumbo-jumbos.

With a catchy title: The Real, and Simple, Equation That Killed Wall Street

What the ... what?  A simple equation that contributed to the Great Recession?

Really?  This equation?

The equation, though simple, reveals one dangerous truth that investors love to exploit.

Really? How?

It is the equation for a leveraged return, L:

Y is the return of the asset, R is the cost to borrow money, and N is the “haircut,” or the percentage of money the investor must put down to secure the loan (the down payment).
A simple example. An investor wants to buy a bond returning 7% using borrowed money. The bank requires them to pay 20% in cash with the remaining 80% lent at a rate of 5%. What is the leveraged return?

So after borrowing, a 7% return is turned into 15%.  Kaboom!

Kaboom, indeed!

Of course, there is a lot more to it; read it and weep!

Science matters, folks. Science!

Some seek eternal youth. I am eternally old?

It was time to get myself to the barbershop. Balding, it turns out, also means that hair growth is remarkably uneven.  Strange how all these aspects of aging are not what I imagined even ten years ago, leave alone my imaginations when I was a kid!

"How do you want your haircut?"

The question coming from him was rather funny because, you see, he was way ahead of me in the balding process.  I bet he has to spend very little on hair care, even less than the tiny amount I have to shell out.

As he started working on my hair, it was, of course, time for small talk.

"Do you work, or are you retired?" he asked.

This is increasingly the story of my life.

At a recent neighborhood party, I introduced myself to the daughter of the neighbors who were the hosts, and she, too, asked me whether I was retired or working.

A while ago, a store clerk apologized for not having given me my senior-citizen discount.

I am no George Clooney, but, really?  Come on, really?  Do I look that old enough to look like I am of retirement age?

The practically all-grey hair on my head and my face leads people to wonder whether I am old enough to be retired.

But, I am not even fifty yet!

I suppose with people coloring their hair--even men--it is mostly only the old and retired, who have nothing to lose or gain, who walk around grey?

On top of the appearance, perhaps I come across as an old fuddy-duddy too.  At least I I don't drool and nod off mid-sentence. Not yet!

No wonder a cousin told me, not too long ago, "live a little, Sriram."

Or, like the other time a few years ago when a much older colleague, who is now well into her retirement, told me that she didn't think I was that young because I was so wise!  I didn't know if that was a compliment or an insult!

"Hey, don't be misled by my grey hair" I told the barber with a chuckle.  "I got my first grey hair when I was 13 or 14."

Other teenagers got pimples and acne as their "welcome to the teens" gift from nature.  I got them, especially right on my nose, and grey hair too.  I was actually quite proud of my grey hair.  After all, how many teenagers get them, right?

"My mother was grey when I was young. So was my grandmother. An uncle. It is genetic" I added.

Driving back home, I wondered why I never felt the urge in all these years to dye my hair, and maintain a clean-shaven face, and present myself as a much younger Sriram. I guess, as Popeye always said, "I am what I am."

Deal with it, world--it is your problem, not mine ;)

For want of three rupees! Customer (non)service :(

I walked to the other end of the Egmore Station in Chennai in order to get "platform tickets."  Non-passengers who want to enter the railway station in order to say bye to their folks, are required to purchase platform tickets.

I was the fourth person in line when the guy at the head of the line was turned away because he didn't have the exact change for the ticket.  He stepped to the side and waited.

The board advised those in line to have the exact change of three rupees per ticket.  I knew I did not have the six rupees I needed for two tickets and worried that the woman at the counter would behave like Seinfeld's Soup Nazi and deny me the tickets as well.

It was my turn.  But the female clerk turned her attention to the guy who was waiting, and yelled at him: "If you stand here, you won't get any change.  Go out to the stores and get change, and then come here."

It will be a terrible understatement to write that I was shocked at such a rude behavior.  It was bizarre.

I looked at him.  Compared to me, he was immaculately attired, with a trim haircut and looked about 25 or 30.

"Two tickets, please" I said as I held out a ten-rupee note.

She looked at the currency bill and paused.  I was sure the Soup Nazi would ask me to step aside.

She looked at me.  And then, grabbed the bill, gave me two tickets and the change.

As I stepped aside, I asked the guy who was rejected, "how much change do you need?"

"I have a twenty."

"Ok, how many tickets are you buying" I asked him.

He wanted one ticket.

"Just one ticket?" I asked him.  He nodded a yes.

I gave him a two rupee coin and a one rupee coin.

"Thank you very much" he said.

I started my walk back to the platform.  Halfway through, he passed me at quite a speed walking of his, but paused for a second and said "thanks."

I hoped that what I had witnessed at the counter was not representative of customer service in India.

Celebrate, or condemn, this self-service economy?

I have blogged about:

• grocery stores, especially the small-talk
• robots and automation
• self-service future; remember this?
• reading the Economist
• watching television

In this post, I can bring them all together--hey, understanding the cosmos is all about connecting the dots, right? ;)

Every once in a while, I catch re-runs of That '70s Show.  Sometimes, I even stream it on Netflix as I work.  In one of those episodes, two hormone-raging teenage males decide to hit on, and pick up, married women at the grocery store--the Piggly Wiggly.

When watching the episode, I thought it was a fictional store, like how the town where they lived, Point Place, was a fictional name.

Now I know better.  Piggly Wiggly is for real!  I learnt that from reading this piece in the Economist, which argues that "businesses should think carefully about continuing to heap work on their customers."  The report begins with:

IN 1916 Clarence Saunders changed the face of retailing when he opened his first Piggly Wiggly supermarket in Memphis, Tennessee. Hitherto, shops had kept all their goods behind the counter: customers told the staff what they wanted, waited while their purchases were bagged up, then handed over their money. Saunders came up with the idea of self-service. Customers selected their own groceries from the shelves, and took their baskets to a cashier on the way out. Saunders proclaimed that by cutting labour costs his idea would “slay the demon of high prices”.

Who woulda thunk that!  Piggly Wiggly is for real.  And it began in Tennessee.  And it was nearly a 100 years ago that this idea of self-service began.  "as an idea it has conquered the world" indeed.  That Saunders was way ahead of his time, eh!

You thought I waste time watching TV! ;)

The self-checkout at grocery stores is merely taking the 100-year old idea to the next level.  And, of course, not going to the store but clicking the order from home and have somebody deliver it is all in that same continuum. As the Economist notes, "The variety of businesses touched by the self-service revolution is ever greater." The magazine includes its unique humor:

Before long, no doubt, self-service barbershops will invite customers to pop their heads into a clipping machine and turn a dial to select the severity of the cut.

Thankfully, I will be gone long before that--and I don't have to miss all the joyful small talk at the haircut place ;)

But, ... yes, there is always a but!

The rise and rise of the self-service business raises two worries in particular.

What are they?  For one:

Consumers are being ever more clearly divided into a “cattle class”, herded into the back of the cabin and offered precious little service, and a pampered “business class”, for whom no amount of fawning is too much.

Well, some people do not care about such inequality.  However,

Not only might this intensify resentment of the haves by the have-nots; it also robs the have-nots of entry-level jobs. 

Any other but?

The second worry is for businesses themselves. If they never meet their customers, they will lose touch with them.

 So what, you ask?

 although self-service is great for saving costs, its effect over time is to train customers to shop on price, and thus to switch as soon as a slightly cheaper rival comes along.

Maybe I need to stop reading and thinking, and instead do what those teenagers in That '70s Show always did! ;)

A young woman asked me for directions in Chennai. And I knew the place :)

Over the past few weeks, one of the most fascinating sights has been that of women riding scooters.  Quite a few of them, however, do not wear helmets.

But, most of the non-helmeted women, unlike the woman in this photo, protect their faces from the dust and the smoke in a very exciting way: they wrap the scarf (dupatta) around their heads in such a manner that only their eyes are exposed.  When I see them, I am reminded of photographs of Arab men and women in the sandy deserts.

When I walk around with my camera, none ever passes by.  When I am without a camera, these "dupatta scooterists" are everywhere!

I was walking to the store the other day when I saw a "dupatta scooterist."  Of course, no camera!  I was walking by the side of the road, directionally against the flow of traffic, and I sensed this scooter coming towards me.

I moved further off the road, worried that I might be run over.

The scooter stopped next to me.

She slowly undid her dupatta.  Perhaps a college student, I thought to myself, when I saw her face.

I have gotten to a stage in life that when a young woman looks at me or seems to wave at me, I know for sure I am merely in her line of sight and there is a young, handsome man behind me.  So, when she stopped, I moved to the side a tad more.

"Hi" she said.

Now I was on alert.  Is this a cousin or a niece that I am supposed to recognize?  Is my selective amnesia that bad?

"Yes?"

"Where is Dhandapani Street?"

Finally, all the walking around paid off.  "This is Dhandapani Street" I replied.  I was proud of myself, that I know this much!

"Oh. My friend is at a hair salon somewhere here."

I know the place really well--I mean, we are talking about right around the corner from where my parents live.

"Skip this upcoming left" I told her. "Then soon after the second left, you will see two hair places."

I should know; only a couple of weeks ago, I got my hair trimmed there.  I was so worried when the hairdresser took out a shaving blade.  "No shave" I hurriedly told him.  Turned out that the blade was for the post-haircut cleanup :)

"My friend said it is opposite to Hotel Ilakkiya" the scooter girl added.

"Yes, it is right there."

She thanked me and we went our ways.

All I could think was, "dammit, I didn't have my camera."  Well, maybe another time.

Report from Nouriel Roubini: OMG, we are in deep shit!

The email (you too can sign up at his blog) says that this will be the worst ever since the Great Depression. Read for yourself:
This is by far the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression

Hundreds of small banks with massive exposure to real estate (the average small bank has 67% of its assets in real estate) will go bust

Dozens of large regional/national banks (a’ la IndyMac) are also bankrupt given their extreme exposure to real estate and will also go bust

Some major money center banks are also semi-insolvent and while they are deemed too big to fail their rescue with FDIC money will be extremely costly.

In a few years time there will be no major independent broker dealers as their business model (securitization, slice & dice and transfer of toxic credit risk and piling fees upon fees rather than earning income from holding credit risk) is bust and the risk of a bank-like run on their very short term liquid liabilities is a fundamental flaw in their structure (i.e. the four remaining U.S. big brokers dealers will either go bust or will have to be merged with traditional commercial banks). Firms that borrow liquid and short, highly leverage themselves and lend in longer term and illiquid ways (i.e. most of the shadow banking system) cannot survive without formal deposit insurance and formal permanent lender of last resort support from the central bank.

The FDIC that has already depleted 10% of its funds in the rescue of IndyMac alone will run out of funds and will have to be recapitalized by Congress as its insurance premia were woefully insufficient to cover the hole from the biggest banking crisis since the Great Depression

Fannie and Freddie are insolvent and the Treasury bailout plan (the mother of all moral hazard bailout) is socialism for the rich, the well connected and Wall Street; it is the continuation of a corrupt system where profits are privatized and losses are socialized. Instead of wiping out shareholders of the two GSEs, replacing corrupt and incompetent managers and forcing a haircut on the claims of the creditors/bondholders such a plan bails out shareholders, managers and creditors at a massive cost to U.S. taxpayers.

This financial crisis will imply credit losses of at least $1 trillion and more likely $2 trillion.

This is not just a subprime mortgage crisis; this is the crisis of an entire subprime financial system: losses are spreading from subprime to near prime and prime mortgages; to commercial real estate; to unsecured consumer credit (credit cards, student loans, auto loans); to leveraged loans that financed reckless debt-laden LBOs; to muni bonds that will go bust as hundred of municipalities will go bust; to industrial and commercial loans; to corporate bonds whose default rate will jump from close to 0% to over 10%; to CDSs where $62 trillion of nominal protection sits on top an outstanding stock of only $6 trillion of bonds and where counterparty risk – and the collapse of many counterparties – will lead to a systemic collapse of this market.

This will be the most severe U.S. recession in decades with the U.S. consumer being on the ropes and faltering big time as soon as the temporary effect of the tax rebates will fade out by mid-summer (July). This U.S. consumer is shopped out, saving less, debt burdened and being hammered by falling home prices, falling equity prices, falling jobs and incomes, rising inflation and rising oil and energy prices. This will be a long, ugly and nasty U-shaped recession lasting 12 to 18 months, not the mild 6 month V-shaped recession that the delusional consensus expects.

Equity prices in the US and abroad will go much deeper in bear territory. In a typical US recession equity prices fall by an average of 28% relative to the peak. But this is not a typical US recession; it is rather a severe one associated with a severe financial crisis. Thus, equity prices will fall by about 40% relative to their peak. So, we are only barely mid-way in the meltdown of stock markets.

The rest of the world will not decouple from the US recession and from the US financial meltdown; it will re-couple big time. Already 12 major economies are on the way to a recessionary hard landing; while the rest of the world will experience a severe growth slowdown only one step removed from a global recession. Given this sharp global economic slowdown oil, energy and commodity prices will fall 20 to 30% from their recent bubbly peaks.

The current U.S recession and sharp global economic slowdown is combining the worst of the oil shocks of the 1970s with the worst of the asset/credit bust shocks (and ensuing credit crunch and investment busts) of 1990-91 and 2001: like in 1973 and 1979 we are facing a stagflationary shock to oil, energy and other commodity prices that by itself may tip many oil importing countries into a sharp slowdown or an outright recession. Also, like 1990-91 and 2001 we are now facing another asset bubble and credit bubble gone bust big time: the housing and overall household credit boom of the last seven years has now gone bust in the same way as the 1980s housing bubble and 1990s tech bubble went bust in 1990 and in 2000 triggering recessions. And a similar housing/asset/credit bubble is going bust in other countries – U.K., Spain, Ireland, Italy, Portugal, etc. – leading to a risk of a hard landing in these economies.

But over time inflation will be the last problem that the Fed will have to face as a severe US recession and global slowdown will lead to a sharp reduction in inflationary pressures in the U.S.: slack in goods markets with demand falling below supply will reduce pricing power of firms; slack in labor markets with unemployment rising will reduce wage pressures and labor costs pressures; a fall in commodity prices of the order of 20-30% will further reduce inflationary pressure. The Fed will have to cut the Fed Funds rate much more – as severe downside risks to growth and to financial stability will dominate any short-term upward inflationary pressures. Leaving aside the risk of a collapse of the US dollar given this easier monetary policy the Fed Funds rate may end up being closer to 0% than 1% by the end of this financial disaster and severe recession cycle.

The Bretton Woods 2 regime of fixed exchange rates to the US dollar and/or heavily managed exchange will unravel – as the first Bretton Woods regimes did in the early 1970s – as US twin deficits, recession, financial crisis and rising commodity and goods inflation in emerging market economies will destroy the basis for it existence.

Thus, the scenario of 12 steps to a financial disaster that I outlined in my February 2008 paper is unfolding as predicted. If anything financial conditions are now much worse than they were at the previous peak of this financial crisis, i.e. in mid-march of 2008

Am I too square a peg in a world of round holes?

Another wonderful advantage in going to the library, which is way past its time to be re-purposed, is the chance to chat with students, with whom I might not otherwise cross paths given our respective schedules and interests.  Always a pleasure when they are keen on even engaging me in substantive conversations.

"L" talked about the Body Modification event that she had been to on campus. 

"I always find those to be interesting" I told her, "especially when I don't even dye my hair.  I just don't get it."

"L" said the thought of the pain while tattooing, for instance, is one big reason why she has never attempted one.  I shared with her about an article I had read a while ago, in which one of the full-body-tattooed person profiled was a Wall Street investment banker.  Most of his work associates had no clue that underneath that suit and tie was a skin that was painted all over.

When driving back home, I was reminded of a strange experience once on a flight on the way to India.  It was in the domestic segment before the connection from Dulles.  I was in the window seat, a woman in, perhaps, her early-thirties in the middle, and an older man in the aisle seat.  The woman made it clear that she was interested in chatting, and every once in a while I participated in the conversation.  She was on her way to Belgium to try living there for a year with her boyfriend whom she had met online.  The success of this meant that she would make Belgium her home.

She got all excited when I said I live in Eugene.  A local tattoo artist was apparently her friend.  She started explaining to me about her professional expertise not only in tattooing but also in body modification.  Up until this conversation, I would have assumed that body modification might have also included piercings.  I would never have guessed scarring as modification.

Yes, scarring.

As if the topic itself was not enough discomfort to me, she made sure I would have a tough time sitting straight and not squirming.  "Let me show you my scar that I am very proud of" she said.

She removed her scarf, and undid the top button of her blouse.  Imagine me being asked by a full-bodied woman to look at her chest, and in the plane!

There it was--a long scar just above her cleavage.  A scar that she had designed and created!  Intentionally!

I had never seen anything like that before.  Yet, there it was in real life.  My mind immediately thought of the physical pain it would have caused.  "The pain was no big deal" was her response. No big deal?  I don't even like to accidentally nick myself when chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and she says the pain with creating that five-inch scar was nothing?

Different strokes for different folks, indeed!

But, it does increasingly seem that people with tattoos are everywhere.  Is that what I notice because I live in Oregon, and also get to experience California?

Over the summer, when driving back from California, I stopped at Starbucks a little outside of Santa Barbara for a scone and coffee.  At a table near the door was a young woman in a tanktop staring intently at her laptop.  The tattoo on her shoulder stared straight at me.

I sat outside to enjoy the sun, when I noticed that the woman to my left and front at another table was wearing one of those low-rise jeans with the butt-cleavage beginning to show.  And right above that cleavage was a tattoo.

The old stereotype was that tattoos were the markings of bikers or bums.  But, that old stereotype, irrespective of whether it was valid at any time at all, is certainly not true now.  The woman with the laptop, for instance, strolled out of the Starbucks and straight to her Lexus SUV.  She had her shirt on this time, and if that had been the first time that I had ever seen her, I might never have guessed that she had a prominent tattoo.

On hot summer days, when men and women of all ages expose themselves to the legal maximum, I feel like I am in the minority anymore.  No tattoos on me.  A regular haircut. No hair-dye. Grey beard. Big glasses.  

But, hey, my ears are pierced.

They have been that way since I celebrated my first birthday.

Maybe I should start wearing earrings, eh!

Nope. Not going to happen.

A bloody boring square bloke I am!  I-yam-what-I-yam :)