At the Whole Foods today, after my haircut at Carl's Barber Shop (an institution, and a place that, happily, does not change) down near 14th and P, a diminutive woman, not young, pulled up behind he in her electric wheelchair.  She is small, her joints deformed, her short legs splayed out at the ankle, soft high top sneakers with velcro bands instead of laces, light vaguely orange ginger hair, a bright smile, glasses--she is reclined somewhat, looking up, a small person--wearing a snazzy brimmed hat, a blazer to match.  She looks up, and I hear her say something indistinctly.  "Let me help you with your groceries," I say, and pick up her items from the flat well of the wheelchair below her legs.  "I'm eating healthy."  "You are eating healthy," I say, gathering a piece of fish wrapped in plastic in a bag of crushed ice.  Some tortillas, a package of tofurkey sausages, a small plastic jug of milk, a vegetable, a few other healthy things, and then she hands me a little bag of two cookies.  "Well, she says, as long as I eat two healthy things a day..."  referring to the guilty pleasure of molasses cookie.  But they have ginger and flax in them, so I can say, "But ginger is very good for you.  Anti-inflammatory, great for the joints."  "Really."  She explains the probiotic benefit of buttermilk, the closest thing to something they used to have down south, starts with a hard 'C', or K, sound, she explains.  Good for your immune system.  "Sealtest, I like the brand.  It's an old Southern brand, been around a long long time."  "I know.  Good ice cream," I say, thinking back to elementary school forty years ago.  And so, in a place full of pretty girls, capable women in professional clothes and yoga gear, as I get ready to go through the checkout line, after the lady, I have a new friend, and this is good.  "How's that Ezekial bread," she asks.  "It's pretty good, actually."  I explain to her the blood type philosophy behind it, to avoid things that cause a person with type O to have inflamed joints and bowels.  "I've had rheumatoid arthritis since I was five," she explains.  "Do you know what your blood type is?" "Well, I'm going to the doctor's next week, so I'll ask him."  "Let me know," and I get her email before she goes, and we wish each other a Happy Memorial Day.  By the time I'm through loading everything up, stocking for my stay dogwatching for my brother, she has rolled on, stylishly.  We shook hands, or rather she extended a bent wrist and I took it my hand and we smiled at each other.

I wonder how many other writers have fallen into a trap of low-self esteem and habit of negative feelings of the kind that can cause a tendency to escape in addictive behavior rather than dealing.  There are many probably, with bright literary minds and great educations, maybe who feel themselves less inclined, whether its true or not, to go into an academic line, the research end, the publishing, the dotting the "I"s and crossing the "T"s.  Many of them probably, well, must work at something, and that something may be little more than something which too keeps their levels of self-esteem low, as if they deserved no company, less moral support, and maybe they even might feel they don't deserve to write at all, as is good for them.  What happens to such people?  Do the things which increased and sustained the lack of self-esteem that most of everyone else seems to enjoy stay with them, continue to drag on them, remain in their own language personal failings, mistakes, things that will haunt them the remainder of life?

I make a big deal out of getting a hair cut.  It's crosstown, got to get there, before it gets busy.  My best friend Dan, of Good Wood, hooked me up.  "Go in and say, 'high and tight,' and they'll take care of  you.'" Lovely patina on the place, chairs to sit in, looking across at the barber chairs.  Talk, good talk, the news on the TV prompting discussion, all very intelligent.  Strange local murder with a hatchet, and then a fellow remembering a terrible murder in Georgetown not far from where I work, a mugging, victims do all they're told to, human rights lawyer...  I almost contribute, 'oh, yeah, that's near the restaurant I work at.'  But, I'm practicing, and this is a fresh world, a good world, and now I see it from the other perspective, not the host, but the visitor.  Check out the grace with which men talk to each other.  Careful grooming, everyone a handsome guy in good shape if not great shape, healthiness lingering at the edges, a kind of lift yourself barbell, a scale, thoughtful pictures of Obama just like those soulful pictures of Jack and Bobby revealing them as the soulful thoughtful men they were.  Guys getting their hair cut, groomed, buzzed, shaved, with far more cooler eyewear than mine.  It's not even noon, early for me, and the air is fresh, cool.

It's the boss who cuts my hair.  "Whatever you think," I tell him.  "The last cut was great.  Should I go shorter, more athletic?"  And he listens and responds, "Okay.  If it's not, we'll take more off."  Totally nice.  TV in background, not blaring.  We had all chuckled over The Price is Right, and guess what, the guy, who'd said his sons told him, Daddy win a truck, guesses low on the black pickup, from what we all think, at $27,500, but guess what--he's only off by a thousand, and he wins.  Truck looked tricked out, dude.  But now we see, it's not the $45, 000 double cab, and the rims are the base sticker price ones.

"Rolling thunder," the male TV voice mentions.  Yes, Memorial Day, bikes.  Harleys coming in on 50, New York Ave.  "I used to tend bar next to a strip joint," I say, as the barber takes the clean and liberating buzzes over the back of my head, liberating the back of the egg from comb-over length locks.  "Memorial weekend?  Chill the Bud," I say, and this is true.  No one says too much.  Maybe a nod, or a yes.  "Oh, man, I've hit a clinker," I think to myself.  Not a good idea, maybe? to bring up fat white dudes full of them macho selves... but yeah, I waited on them, and I  hope that comes across.  "Chill the Bud."  Practicality.  Then they'll go away.

Yes, it's nice being on the other side, relaxing, refreshing, a learning experience.