THE CURE FOR BELLYACHIN'

It was a quiet Thursday morning at the barbershop. J.B was in the shop reading the paper and I was seated at the desk in the office, talking on the phone. Suddenly, the front door opened and someone asked, “Is Terry here?” Quickly I ended my conversation, and opened the office door to see who had come in.

I was pleased to see one of my regulars, a very successful businessman that I especially like. He said that his wife and son were outside in the car, and he wanted to know if I would mind taking a look at his 16-year-old to see if there was something I thought I could do with his hair. I asked if he thought it would work best if I came outside or if he would like to bring him inside. In a moment, with the help of his wife, he brought his son in.

As I walked over to the door to greet his wife, and the boy whose hair I had cut since he was just a little tike, my heart sank to the floor. I thought I had mentally prepared myself, but I was totally unprepared for what I saw.

Several months prior, the dad had come in for a haircut. As usual, I asked, “Joe, how are you?” “Not too good today,” he solemnly replied. “Billy is in Brooke Army Medical Center with second and third degree burns over 60 % of his body.” He went on to explain that Billy had an accident while driving the classic pickup the two of them had restored, and the truck had caught fire.

The boy that was standing in the door of my barbershop had just spent his first night at home, after spending several months in BAMC’s burn unit. Had I not known his parents and the circumstances, I would have never recognized him.

As you might expect, the strain still showed on his parent’s faces. As I carefully cut his hair, avoiding the skin grafts and tender spots on his head, I thought of those days when the sweet mom who was holding his head would bring her little boy in for his after-school haircut. Her life, her son’s and her husband’s would never be the same. Such a beautiful family. It was all such a dirty, rotten, sorry, no-good shame!

On the more positive side, these events remind me of another little boy and of his great uncle. The uncle owned a dump truck, and would occasionally take the nephew with him on various runs. It was a great time, as we would go bouncing off down the road.

Just before my Uncle Archie died, due to the affects of diabetes, Mom and he had an amusing conversation in the hospital. There is certainly nothing funny about diabetes, but it didn’t keep Uncle Archie from having a great sense of humor.

Sadly, he had both legs amputated in order to save his life. In an effort to brighten his day, when Mom walked in his room, she cheerfully asked, “Well, how you doing today, Uncle Archie?” With a gleam in his eye, he smiled and said, “Well, I can’t kick.” Bless his heart, literally, I guess he couldn’t. But, if anyone ever had anything to kick about he certainly did.

BARBER-OSOPHY: We don’t have to look far to realize that most of us have so very little to kick about most of the time.

*For privacy “Joe” and “Billy” are fictitious names.

Copyright 2006, Terry L. Sumerlin.

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