African Trimmings

I went for a haircut, at a local hairdresser and I was told a beautiful lady would be cutting my hair. As I was seated and prepped, an African lady larger than me with enough padding around her bottom to stuff a full lounge suite greeted me.
When she asked scissors or "that hair shearing thing what's name I just forgot" I should have smelt a rat, I said scissors of course, being adventurous
Then she brought scissors and one of those big combs the blacks with 
Afros keep in their hair
So I figured, this is a well setup hairdresser that charges R25 for a haircut so it should be ok? All true.

Right?

Hell no

She used the scissors and comb and proceeded to remove a huge chunk out of the right side of my head
Some sense returned as Danny my work colleague and friend abruptly turned and walked out laughing.
I put my specs on and did I leave? No
I told her that maybe the shearer would be better. She smiled and almost skipped off to get it
Danny came in smiling like a bloody naughty kid, it looked like he had been crying his eyes were so wet
She came back and asked if she should shave the top the same length as the back and Danny left the shop again
No I stayed, not sure if it was shock or stupidity at this stage
She used a no 4 all over and then back came the scissors
She did the round the ear bits and I prayed and apologised for all I had and would ever do.
Returneth the crying Danny

He asked my beautifully gifted hair stylist if she would mind if he could help AND SHE YES!!!
What the hell

He did a No3 round the back and sides, then asked for a No 2. He did the edges and sides AGAIN with it and I was not saying a word. I asked how it looked and I could have sworn I heard him snort

It was over.

I got a wash AFTER the haircut AND paid full price for it
As we walked out he laughed like a bloody idiot, the reason he had to use the No 2 was that on the other side to the big comb cut disaster, she had cut a stripe while trimming round my ear. The No 3 didn't remove it

Sigh. It was a real experience for the costly sum of R25.
The moral of the story once again is that Africa isnt for sissies.

Nite All.

My Idiots Guide to Raising Teenagers

Yes, you are the idiot. Accept it and you will be able to move on.
If not, read the first sentence until it dawns on you that you are, this is not rocket science.

Somewhere between the age of 13 and nineteen, supreme unsurmountable knowledge is bestowed on our angels and a level of all-knowing wisdom enters them. This will be extinguished upon them turning the ripe old age of 20 when worldly realizations of rent, work and somewhere to stay cannot be answered with mantras of "like whatever" or "just take a chill pill".

You have certain responsibilities as a parent and I will list them because like me, you do not have the capability to read and think at the same time. No, my dear fellow parent, you are not gifted.
You will work long hours, sometimes have 2 jobs to try and somehow make it to the third week of the month. You will beg, steal, borrow and refrain desperately from selling what you will consider excess body organs to keep a roof over your head, food on the table and purchase school items needed over and above school fees.

Clothing, torn costs more because it looks cool, so do not try to discuss it or refer to it as damaged or second hand, It does not matter that costs a fortune or is so cheap that the item may appear stolen, if it doesn't form part of an outfit it will be shunned, unless it is so desirable that all life on the planet will cease if it is not acquired. Are you following you me so far? Good.
This applies to the male and female teenage species and now we move onto the next item on the list, hair. We need to have access to enough products to survive a holocaust and must have both straighteners and curlers, branding is of the utmost importance because you, and I quote "can like to ruin your hair and like go bald early". Correct me if I misunderstand this, the hippies from my era had amazing hair, long and unkept and washed infrequently, did I imagine this? When mentioned that I used to just wear a cap when I overslept and didn't have time for a shower in my youth, I feel that somehow I am about to be swallowed up by the hair gods and spat out in a hell where there are no brushes, comb, shampoo or conditioner.

The environment is "super" important, UNLESS it somehow affects our sense of dress, hair, music, food to mention a few. More deodorant is spent in one session than I use in a week and I have a neutral body odour. Oh and have I mentioned the rolling of the eyes, the hand over the eyes and shaking head and the proverbial open mouth dropped jaw looks that you will receive as a parent? They are merely expressions of amazement and hero-worship for some act that you have carried out to be remembered forever and discussed with their peers. "You are SO not gonna believe what my Dad did in the shopping centre yesterday!" See, pride and acknowledgement.

So dear parent, how do you cope with this alien that has been forced upon you?
You love it, feed and clothe it and don't attempt to understand it. We are all in need of unconditional love without judgement, however this doesn't not mean allowing them free reign over your world. By no means, your house so your rules and consequences for actions.

Nite All

Miles of Smiles Part Three

Christmas & Beyond

I used to love Christmas, the music, tree and all its decorations, cooking for lots of people and presents and most importantly, the Christmas Service at our local Church. The second last time we attended the Service, I went dressed in my Father Christmas outfit and the looks I got from the little kids present (and some of the parents) were worth every bucket of sweat I shed in that hour.
Since the divorce, I haven't been back to a Christmas Service, perhaps next year I will pluck up the courage.

So we were ready, off to bed early, trifle made, meat ready to go into the oven, presents wrapped and Dad sleeping. The previous three year Brian,Dee and their family had opened their homes to us and we had embraced this as place of safety to survive the day, this year we wanted it to be different.
We awoke, showered, wished each other Merry Christmas and my Mom and I got my Dad out of his bed, onto the wheelchair and then into his lazyboy chair, Mom does 90% of it and I simply assist because I want to be there, its more important than life itself that I do something.
Presents on the coffee table, Simon the official distributor and me with my Canon shooting the whole event. 
Lunch was amazing, my Mom feeding my Dad and the girls and I unable to move as we felt so full we   were not able to lie on our bellies for fear that our heads would not reach the pillows.
It was our third Christmas together and finally the spirit was back again.

The next day was shell hunting, (a task so dangerous that I was forced to reveal my torso to ward off the predators), a swim in the sea and supper with Brad and Vicky. This trip had also allowed us to meet old friends, some for the first time. In an age of electronic friendships, international friendships are possible and on this trip I was determined to meet as many of my friends I had never seen face to face, Brad and Vicky are not one of those, they have a house that oozes love, food, fellowship and  amazing wine. It was a home to all who entered it and no-one left empty handed. 

In life there are moments where you can just feel blessed and cared for, this holiday was reaching a stage where old wounds that were sealed were being healed, it was a spiritual experience where all we encountered was love and beauty and I felt like breathing again.

Miles of Smiles Part Two

Beach & Shopping

Rested and fed and fed again, the girls and I headed to the beach and our first of many encounters with the surf clothing shops, Country Feeling, Billabong to name a few. 

They shopped, and shopped, then shopped a little more and when I was proudly holing up a white speedo for all to see they simply shook their heads in disbelief and shopped a little more. No, I was not permitted to try on the white speedo and sing YMCA for the fellow shoppers, I was sent to purchase water. 

R12 for a bottle of 500ml water, I asked the shop attendant if that included the vaseline to make the whole episode less painful, the blank stare I received told me all I needed to know. I returned to my girls and ignored the security whose frail attempts to inform me that refreshments were not allowed in the shop, imagine I slipped and spilt some bottled water on a bikini or a towel, heck they would have to throw it out.

And so the shopping ended with a drunk stumbling barefooted local showing me how to reverse and then patiently waiting for payment for his expertise, we arrived at the beach. I removed my shirt and slops, flexed and relaxed my wobbly bits and with my camera round my neck followed Simon and Nicole to the waters edge. I was finally on holiday, I clicked and focussed and shot everything in sight, spoke to bikini clad ladies and then photographed them, the girls were on a venture to collect shells so I photographed them as well.

The sea air, the laughter, the little kid who splashed me and whose head I was now holding under the water, it was just what I needed. 

We arrived back at my parents house and raided the fridge which was bursting as usual, went to check on my Dad and he looked much better than the previous day, the cooler weather was definitely helping. Mom and I discussed Christmas lunch which would included 3 different meats and enough food to feed  a troop of JW's if they came a-knocking.

My Mom is so in control and bubbly that you would never guess that she is a pensioner/wife/nurse/cook/Mom to 4 and Granny to 3. She wakes up with a smile and just gets through the day taking all life deals her. She deals with her sorrow and hardships with a strong faith and never say die attitude. 

A final trip to the shops for some last minute Christmas shopping for the girls and some more photo shooting for me and we were ready for a family Christmas. This was what the girls and I had been talking about and planning for more than 6 months, Christmas at my folks with Granny's cooking. Simon had made her now famous trifle and we fell asleep with smiles on our faces.

It was hard to believe that this was the same shattered, bruised and broken family of three that had to face Christmas three years ago, raw from divorce. Time, hard work, love and faith can indeed work miracles.

Miles of Smiles Part One

Getting There . . .

It was a road trip that we had dreamt of, discussed and planned for months, and it was finally here.

My girls awoke me at one in the morning, we packed Daisy to the hilt and headed off to the coast, I was the designated driver and Nicole sat next me riding shotgun and keeping me awake.

Nighttime, toll roads and tarred roads as long as Granddad's tales of "when I was your age", as the road rose to meet us I found myself as relaxed as a fatboy eating a bucket of KFC and not having to share. With the sound of Sugarman humming in the background, i reflected on the past year, tough - yes, lonely - hell yes, rewarding - undoubtably. The sacrifice that my girls and I had made when I took on my Lesotho adventure had made this holiday possible, this was the icing on the top complete with a lit candle and singing voices.
We drove and chatted and sang our lungs out, my version of white man rapping had my girls hiding their heads in shame ad thus I persevered. By the time we got to Grahamstown, it was 40'C and we were melting, no-one was singing anymore and Simon was as pale as she was red and flushed, it was as if someone had switched the cold water off in a shower we could not escape. This continued for and hour and a half and then we saw the ocean. We had arrived in JBay.

My Mom met us with hugs and a smile that I had sorely missed and I went through to see my Dad.
He was lying on his bed. He looked like a stroke victim with a huge scar on his arm when he had had a plate inserted after he had broken it. I was shocked and shaken, but put on a brave face, afterall this was my Father, my hero, the man who loved and encouraged me to reach the sporting standards I had, and now he was lying here staring ahead with no recognition of me at all. My Mom came into the room and I put my arm around her and we chatted about Dad, how she managed to stay so positive through all of this will remain with me forever. The words "for better or for worse, through sickness and in health till death us do part" brought a tear to my eye and I rubbed it away quickly.
In the days ahead my Dad would improve and slowly get stronger, the Parkinsons has eaten away at him yet he fights it daily with the aid of a loving wife who refuses to give up and leave her partner of 48 years. Were it not her, my Dad would have left us years ago.
She feeds him, washes and clothes him and changes him when he has messed himself, she talks to him throughout it all and lies with him when he sleeps. She is as protective over him as a teenager with her first Blackberry.

We had arrived, tired, hot but happy.