On One Hand

January 5, 2008

Hair clippings

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 5:08 pm
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I was giving a lesson to the middle school group at the UU church, but couldn’t think straight and wasn’t sure what lesson I was giving. Meanwhile, new kids I hadn’t met before kept showing up – even after there were 12 in the room, not a single kid was a regular – and I wasn’t able to remember any of the new names I was learning. There was a heavyset, hispanic-looking boy with long hair and a slight moustache at one end of the table; I asked him if he was really in middleschool, and he said yes but he looked like he could be 18. A thin, curvy blonde girl seemed too old as well; she insisted she was in 8th grade.

The youth program director, who I work under, appeared in the room and told one of the younger kids, probably 9 years old, that firearms were not allowed in our congregation. She reached down and pulled a handgun from his waist. “Aww, it wasn’t even loaded,” he complained, but the my boss pulled off the magazine to reveal a full set of 16 bullets. “Oh really?” she barked accusingly. “I’m going to hang on to this. You can have it back when you leave,” she said, re-attaching the magazine and putting the gun on a table. “Aww,” the kid said again.

I went back to giving my lesson, but noticed that I was having a hard time annunciating. There was a hair in my mouth – no, there were several hairs – which were increasingly annoying. I tried to pick them out, but gave up. The more I talked, the more my mouth felt full of hair clippings, and I excused myself when they became so obstructive that it was nearly impossible to speak. By the time I got to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, quarter-inch long hair clippings were literally pouring out of my mouth, and were clinging to my cheeks and chin and scattered across my clothing. I tried to rinse most of them out in the sink, but the supply seemed endless. It was the color of my own hair. I remember thinking that this would be nearly impossible to explain to the board of directors and I would be fired for producing such a disaster in the middle of a service.

Then I woke up.

My roommate said, “I’m pretty sure Freud would have something to say about that.”

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