Haircut

I got a haircut the other day. I hate getting my hair cut, though I'm not sure why. There's nothing particularly unpleasant about it. My hair is cut by a heterosexual Russian guy who calls me "dear." My mother may have called me dear from time to time, but really I associate it with my Crazy Aunt Ida Great aunt, actually). Most middle-aged and older Jewish guys have a Crazy Aunt Ida, but I think the name has gone out of fashion and we may be the last of our breed.

My crazy Aunt Ida lived with her husband, Uncle Izzy, in Boro Park in Brooklyn. Izzy was Orthodox and belonged to a shul of World War I veterans, of which he was one. After WWI, he was a contractor and build many houses in Boro Park, though I'm not sure if his house was one of them. He was a gnarly old guy who didn't like many people, but he liked me and he tutored me for my Bar Mitzvah, which was the first Bar Mitzvah in his shul for over 30 years.

Izzy collapsed and died one day at age 89 and Ida tried to catch him as he fell and she fell and broke her hip. My dad arranged with the hospital to keep her there for a few extra days while a friend and I cleaned and painted the house (we had to work with the shades drawn on Shabbos). We found many bits of evidence of Eastern European fears and depression era money hoarding. Ida, though nuts, was a savvy investor who was into mutual funds long before it was cool. But she kept her money in 6 or 7 different banks and kept the bankbooks and stock certificates hidden under mattresses, behind radiators, at the back of the closet wrapped in a dirty rag, and under the area rug.

Well, this started off being about haircuts anyway.