Sunday Newscape Magazine

This past Saturday, my wife and I visited the Amish. The Amish, for those of you who have never seen Witness, are a troupe of talented actors who are paid by the Pennsylvania Bureau of Tourism and Travel to portray a Norman Rockwell painting.

The story you are about to read is true. First, some background. A few years ago, I made my living exclusively as a freelance writer. During this time, I wrote for a variety of clients - from Time Warner who owns everything to a printing company in Blue Ridge, Georgia that didn’t even own a telephone (amazingly, they were the only client I’ve ever had that paid in full and on time).

My hair and I have long had a love/hate relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy to have it and, considering my 94-year-old grandfather still sports a full head of hair, I’m not worried about it going away any time soon. But still, I can’t help but be pissed at it. It’s thick. It’s coarse. It feels like a steel Brillo pad. And it never lies down flat. Never.

I’m in a bad mood. On the mood scale, with One being “singing Disney birds” and Ten being “if I see even one more magazine about Brangelina in the grocery store checkout line, I’m gonna slash my wrists with the subscription card,” I’d say I’m at a solid Eleven.