The Haircut – A Chef is Born

I walked into the house, exhausted, sweat oozing from every pore in my body.

Pushing my old, beat-up motorcycle up Candler Hill was tough, but I managed it. The last time the bike quit on me I wasn’t so lucky, I had to ditch it on the side of the road for a couple of days and pray it would stay there. Most days though, it was still better than riding the school bus with a bunch of losers. Dressed for work in her nurse’s uniform and intentionally blocking the hallway, my mom stopped me on the way to the shower. “Here. Check this out," she said, handing me the newspaper. "Why do I want to look at the paper mom? I'm not selling anything. And if you don't mind, I need a shower." "Just look, okay?" I quickly snatched the paper out of her hands, barely ducking in time as the palm of her hand grazed across the top of my head. That was close. "So, What am I looking for?" "Under jobs," she said. "Right before the bottom of the page." The only thing I saw was a boxed in ad about pre-interviews for some fast food restaurant that wasn't even built yet. "And... this interests me why?" This time, I didn't duck fast enough. "Come on mom, that hurt. And I'm sweating all over the floor here!" "Just read it," she said again. I started reading to myself, but when I saw those long, bony fingers clenching and unclenching, knuckles popping, I started reading aloud, "Long John Silver's fish and chips restaurant comes to Ocala. We are currently breaking ground at our newest location. All positions available. Managers, cooks, servers, and dishwashers. Please apply in person at 1828 E. Silver Spring Blvd, between the hours of 9:00 am and 4:00 pm on April 13th and 14th." That was tomorrow and Sunday. "So, what do you think?" She asked. "I'm not washing dishes mom." Then, seeing the look in her eyes I quickly added, "Well, not anywhere but home." "Not as a dishwasher, you moron, as a cook." Now I knew she'd lost her mind. "I can't cook mom.  And they’re not gonna hire some kid with no experience. Plus, I'm only fifteen." "Yeah, but they don't know that. And you can cook." She had a point. But heating up whatever she'd left for us before heading off to work every night wasn't exactly cooking. At least not in my eyes. Before I got the chance to rattle off my list of excuses for not getting a job, she said, “I know what you're thinking. You don't just heat up the food. I see the dishes when I get home, and what's left on the plates isn't the same as what I left for you to cook. So, I know you're getting a little creative." Little did she know, most of that "creativity" was inedible. Not that my brothers or sister would say anything. Unless they wanted to get pummeled, that was. "Yeah, but most of it's not that good mom." "Doesn't matter. At least you’re trying. Anyway, you don't have anything to lose. The worst that can happen is you don't get the job. Plus, you like money in your pocket, don't you?" Yeah, I did like money. And at the time I had a wad of bills burning a hole in my pocket, but I couldn't explain how it got there. Not unless I was willing to accept the consequences the explanation was gonna get me. So, instead, I said, "Okay, I'll go check it out tomorrow." This time, she snatched the paper out of my hand. "Go take a shower, you're dripping all over my floor." Thanks, mom. The next morning on the way into town I prayed for that bike to die. Didn't happen. When I got to the address I saw a lone guy sitting behind a metal office desk in the middle of a semi-cleared field. It was loud as all hell, the sun blinding, bouncing off the new desk right into my eyes. There was a huge bulldozer kicking up clouds of dirt behind him. I parked ten feet from the desk and hopped off the bike. It felt like I was on a movie set, only the stage wasn't assembled yet. He said, "You're the first one to arrive. What are you applying for?" "Cook, I guess. At least my mom thinks I'm qualified." "Then, maybe you are son." He handed me an application. Son, I hated when people called me son. I filled out my very first job application, leaving the employment history blank. It just didn’t seem appropriate to put "pot dealer" as previous employment. "The construction will be completed in about three months,” the dusty guy behind the desk said. ”Watch the newspaper for the announcement. All you need to do is show up on the specified date, and you’ve got the job. It’s my restaurant, so if I say you're in, you're in." Thank you, wasn’t the first thought that ran through my mind. It was more along the lines of, how am I gonna stop my mom from seeing that announcement. Finally, I said, "Thank you, sir."

Three months later, after forgetting all about watching the paper, my mom shook me awake at 7:00 am on a Saturday, in the Summer. "Get up," she said. "And get dressed."

In cutoffs, tank top, and flip-flops, I dragged my tired butt into the kitchen. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the paper open to the want-ads. There was a big red circle drawn in the center of the page. Shit. I knew exactly what that circle represented. The loss of my freedom. "Is that what I think it is?" "Yup. And you'd better put on something a little nicer." When I showed up at the address again, there was no lone guy sitting at a metal desk and no bulldozer kicking up dust. What there was, was a brand new building and a beehive of activity. Every seat was taken. People were hunched over applications, painstakingly trying to fill in the blanks. The combined volume of over fifty voices was deafening. I tried to pick out "My guy," amongst the crowd, but I couldn’t find him. I spotted another man in a white shirt and flowered tie with his sleeves rolled up, trying to give the impression that he worked for a living. He walked up to me and asked "Can I help you?" "Yeah," I said. "I'm here for my job." He started to laugh. "What's so funny," I said. "Well, first you need to fill out an application. Then, we’ll see about a job. Why don’t you wait for an open seat and then let me know when you're finished?” He started walking away when I grabbed his arm. "I don't think you understand sir. I filled out an application with the owner before they started construction. It was just him and me, and a big open field. He told me all I had to do was show up today, and the job was mine. So, here I am." He laughed again. It was beginning to piss me off. "Well son, I hate to disappoint you. But that man is no longer with the company. This is my store now.” There is was again. Son. I was about to tell the guy what I really thought of him when he said something that changed my life. "I'll tell you what. Fill out another application. Then, go get a haircut. When you get back I'll give you that job. How does that sound?" It sounded pretty shitty, but I told him, "Let me think about it okay?" "Don't think too long son, the offer's only good for today." Son. I really hated when people called me son. I wanted to smack the guy with one on my mom’s bony hands, but instead, I went outside and sat on the curb, chain-smoking one Marlboro after another.

Two hours later I walked into my house, with a haircut!

When I told my mom I got the job, you know what she said? "You cut your hair? For two years I've been trying to get you to cut your hair. Now you do it for a job. I don't get you." I didn’t get her. What was she so mad about? It was her stupid idea to get a job. I was expecting, "Great job, or, I'm happy for you." But instead, all I got was, "I can't believe you cut your hair for a job." Today, as a parent. I get it. Now, to the point of this origin story. I've been told many times that God will do for me what I can't do for myself. Today, I believe that. Fifty-years later, writing this little memoir, I remember praying for that piece of crap bike to die. It didn't happen. Truthfully, I never really wanted a cook’s job either. At least until I was told it wasn't mine. So maybe, just maybe, it was meant to be. Until today, I never thought about the implications of one very difficult decision made by a fifteen-year-old boy. A decision that changed the course of my life. That one choice, to cut my hair, brought me to where I am today. Don't get me wrong, throughout the years there have been plenty of times when I wished I hadn't cut my hair. But most days, I'm glad that I did. Loring Felix The Fiery Chef