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Doesn’t matter where I go. Might be the grocery store, might be a fast-food drive-thru. It doesn’t matter. Each time it seems I get stuck behind some IDIOT who either can’t make a decision or doesn’t know how the system works. Or some guy who is ordering meals for an entire construction crew.

It’s bad enough that the person behind the counter is often struggling to function, but when the customer is also only two or three evolutionary steps beyond a slush puddle, it’s enough to burn your ass with rage.

Okay, maybe just mine. But you know what I mean.

The other day I’m at a mall food court (I’m not proud of it, but sometimes ya gotta eat). There is only one lady ahead of me. Mind you, she has four young kids with her, but I figure things will still move somewhat quickly. After all, there is plenty of time to look at the large menu that is proudly displayed overhead in large letters and bright colors, listing all of the available food items and prices. There are even pictures for those who don’t know what “chicken” or “hamburger” means.

For some reason, this lady decides to wait until she gets to the cash to figure out what she wants. Even though she’s been standing in front of the menu for several minutes, it’s as if she is now just seeing it for the first time. First she asks the kids to choose what they want, an event that proceeds in a calm and orderly fashion. Much like your average soccer riot.

Time drags and drags, stops for a bit, and then drags some more. Finally, everyone seems to agree on what they want. But she is not satisfied. Now she feels the need to start mucking things up.

“How much would this be?” she asks. “How much would that be? Can I get this if I get that? Do I have to have this if I order that? Does that come with pickles? Could he get a large juice instead of a medium? How much mayonnaise is on that?”

I swear this went on for years. Even the young girl working the cash, after tapping in orders, canceling orders, answering questions, then tapping in orders again, looked ready to either break down and cry or blow her brains out. In the line-up, you could glance around and see the murderous thoughts lurking in everyone’s eyes.

First of all, figure out what you want before you get up to the cash. If you cannot figure it out, or need more time to contemplate such an earth-shattering decision as to what fatty, shitty food to stuff in your mouth, kindly step aside and let the other hungry people who do know what they want go ahead of you. This is called “courtesy”. It’s the same thing that keeps all of us who patiently wait from smashing your skull against the counter.

Second, stay home and wait for the trucks. They will be around to pick you up shortly.

It seems parents are no longer allowed to discipline their children. An Ottawa man has been charged for spanking his young son. Okay, so maybe he first grabbed the little guy by the throat. But still, cut the guy some slack. In the course of a day I see at least a dozen children deserving of a merciless beating. From the screeching tykes in the local mall to those annoying brats in the restaurant who keep peeking over their booths to stare at us while we eat, there are many times when stern, firm, and painful physical discipline could be a useful tool in correcting this misbehavior.

My brother and I were beaten all the time as kids. I remember being held down and burned with cigarettes, thrashed with belts and wooden spoons, and being confined to a 3×3 foot cage until I “learned my lesson”. Did I learn it? Of course! To this day I sit quietly with my hands folded, and always say “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” when I am spoken to (and ONLY when spoken to). My parents loved us. I mean, how many other parents would take the time to teach the lesson of the hot stove by actually placing your hand on the scorching hot burner? Ours did.

And how many parents these days help keep their kids fit by chaining them to a trailer hitch and driving so fast that you either keep up or end up being dragged along the road? Ours certainly did. My brother and I excelled at track in high school, and though our parents never attended our events or awards ceremonies (they didn’t have to—they knew they had trained us well), we knew they were proud. And when we forgot to go out into the yard and clean up the dog poop one day, our father simply took the dog away. We don’t know where ol’ Sam went, but we had learned our lesson. Thanks Dad!

So I say go easy on this guy. He’s only trying to do what’s right. Now excuse me, I have fires to set and small animals to torture.

This was the first time my wife and I went to this location for breakfast. And it will probably be the last. It wasn’t that the service was particularly bad or the food tasted like crap, it was just that simple courtesy wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Our waitress, for whatever reason, just seemed to have an instant dislike for us. There’s no way for me to explain this, it’s just one of those “vibe” things you pick up on. Maybe she was having a rough day or something, but she was friendly enough to the couple at the table behind us. A warm welcome, some friendly chatter. For us, it was right down to business. No pleasantries at all. I ordered a “Theos Skillet”.

A short time later, a different server brought out our plates.  My wife’s order was correct, but they had brought me a “Theo’s Omelette”. I informed the server that there must be a mistake. Without apology, she informed me that it would take a few minutes to prepare a new plate. So I watched my wife dig in and waited for the correct order to arrive. When it did, it was brought over by yet another server.

Meanwhile, our original waitress ignored our table completely. Maybe she thought I would say something nasty to her. Anyone can make a mistake. I’m certainly not going to rag on someone for making an honest error. Regardless, for the rest of our meal she did not stop by to check in, ask if we wanted more coffee (at $2.05 per cup, a refill would’ve been nice), or apologize for the mixup. The only time our server came back was to deliver the check.

The server who’d corrected the mistake (who seemed to be a manager or at least a supervisor) also chose not to follow-up to see if everything was satisfactory now. I didn’t need my balls cradled while sweet-nothings were whispered in my ear; all I wanted was for someone to say “sorry about that, is everything okay?” But the impression I got was that they were pissed off at me. They were certainly NOT going to apologize for bringing me the wrong order. It’s not that big a deal, but simple gestures go a long way.

By contrast, when my wife found a rotten strawberry in her fruit cup at the Wright Avenue (Dartmouth) location, they apologized profusely and gave her $20 in gift certificates. We thought that was a bit much, but hey, they screwed up and felt badly about it and wanted to make sure we came back. Hmmm. If we do decide to eat at Cora’s again, I wonder which one will get our business?

Like millions of other men, I suffer from male pattern baldness. I guess it started in my late 20′s, when I started hearing cracks like “hey, widow’s peak” from my friends. At first it was just a receding hairline. But these days the crown—which was once a lush, thick, unruly, mass of follicular glory—is now more reminiscent of  Siberian tundra. Nothing grazes there. It is a place where things go to wither and die.

Hairloss stalks you slowly. You know it’s happening but it doesn’t really hit you until that moment you just happen to see yourself in a particular photo or you suddenly catch a glimpse of your reflection and realize, holy shit when did that happen? I’m bald! At that point I went through the same motions almost every other guy goes through. Panic, anger, sadness, anxiety, rage, melancholy, shame, despair, mourning, denial, vindictiveness, and finally, sighed resignation. Though the genetic gods had seen fit to bless me in so many other ways, in this way they had, in their infinite cruelty, decided to curse me.

Baldness. Nature’s way of kicking you to the sidelines and taking you out of the game.

I tried various shampoos and lotions, herbs and pills, and fingertip massage. Once I even went to Vancouver’s Chinatown in search of some mysterious red tablets. I can’t recall the exact  nature of these pills, but they were likely something extracted from dessicated tiger testicles. It’s probably best I did not find them. Needless to say, nothing worked. But hey, at least my scalp felt great!

Though the loss of my lions mane did give me concern, I tried not to obsess too much about it. Fleeting thoughts of wigs, drugs, and even transplant surgery came and went. The fact is that aside from surgical replacement of the dead follicles, hairloss cannot be cured; it can only be slowed down or at best, mildly reversed.

Hairpieces are 99% obvious. The only people who think hairpieces are undetectable are the guys wearing them.

Drugs like Rogaine and Propecia might help a bit, and in some cases allow strangulated follicles to recover, but once you stop taking the pills or rubbing on the lotion all that magical hair vanishes. And there are always side-effects when you start messing around with drugs and hormones, not to mention the monthly side-effects to your wallet.

And surgery. Well, a decent surgeon is going to set you back several thousand dollars, and even then your results are not guaranteed to resemble the flowing mane of your youth. And if your surgery goes bad, well, that’s a whole ‘nother set of problems you now have to deal with, in addition to your balding. And the spots you didn’t have replaced might need touch ups (i.e. more $$$$) down the road.

The question ultimately becomes: how much is your hair worth to you?

In my case (and yours might differ), it was not worth a substantial financial investment or health risk to attempt to preserve or recover my hair. Sure, I miss it. Absolutely. But hey, did you ever notice that in science fiction movies, most of the advanced species are hairless? Us baldies are ahead on the evolutionary path.

And where once hirsute Chewbaccas and Sasquatch creatures roamed the beaches of the 60′s and 70′s, it seems body hair is persona-non-grata these days. “Manscaping” is now a lucrative business as guys go after their back, shoulder, and chest hair. Even scrotal shaving is popular thanks to the abundance of porno. The shaved head is actually cool now, and celebrities like Jason Statham and Vin Diesel are proving that the measure of a man is not reflected by the amount of hair on his head. But for CEOs, movie stars, and others who rely on style over substance, a full head of hair is still an asset.

As for women, I’m sure most prefer a full head of hair, but I’d wager that none prefer a comb over or some other attempt to disguise the loss. Keep it short, keep it neat and clean, and work on your confidence. Besides, women are more attracted to what’s in your wallet, not what’s on your head.

It will take time for society to stop stigmatizing the balding man as “loser” or second fiddle to his more gloriously coiffed peers. But the first step is to stop letting ourselves feel that way.

The other night my wife and I took her mom to the Economy Shoe Shop on Argyle Street in Halifax for dinner. The place seems to have a decent reputation and lots of business folk and local “celebrities” can often be found eating and drinking there. I remembered hearing the owner, Victor Syperek, was neck deep into his creditors and thought it had gone out of business (or was well on it’s way) long ago. But it was still open, so there ya go.

They both ordered the Curry Chicken Linguini ($19) with Scallops. I decided on the 10oz Angus Strip Loin. Both of their plates arrived “cold” and had to be sent back for reheating. My steak ($25) looked like one of those charbroiled cheapo steaks you’d get at the Zellers Skillet or, even worse, a Ponderosa. Fatty and greasy, it was what I call a “gristle steak”.

For the amount they charge for it, I was expecting something on par with the Keg or even Montanas. I swear at least half this steak ended up on the sidelines of my plate once I carved off the fat and ligaments. The potato was unspectacular; a simple baked spud with some sour cream and chives. The veggies were good, but this meal was hardly worth $10 let alone $25.

Our service was decent, but they should have at least offered to eat our beer tab (2 draft) for serving the cold meals. And I should have tossed the crappy steak on the floor for the dogs and asked for a real cut of meat for such a ridiculous price. I guess they figure that as a “hot shit” establishment, quality is not required. Total cost for this lousy dining experience: $82.

Ya suckered me once, Syperek. Never again, Victor. Never again.