Dufnering!

Hello everyone from the coldest and rainiest place I’d only wish upon my bottom quartile of enemies!

I’m sure that many or even most of you have been swept by the latest athlete-behaviour craze since the advent of Tebowing…. Dufnering: http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/dufnering

Jason Dufner is a golfer I decided to champion (and place a few quid on) during the 2011 PGA championship, simply because he nearly shares my wife’s last name, Duffner. As a 250 to 1 long shot in that tournament, he was on pace to make me look like a handicapping genius before squandering a 5 stroke lead with 4 holes to play. Damn you Keegan Bradley - what the heck kind of name is Keegan, anyway!

I certainly felt like Dufnering at that point, but I was able to take solace in the fact that Dufner is the Americanisation of Duffner (my wife’s family), and that maybe, just maybe, way back when, the Duffner blood was blessed with some serious golfing genes! I mean, he's not even one yet, and Riley's already mastered the art of Dufnering https://themetzwedding.shutterfly.com/babymetz/1155. (contact me if you don't have the PW).

Anyhow, on to what’s really been monopolizing my thoughts of late… the barber shop. I hate getting haircuts. I mean I just haaaaaaate getting haircuts. In fact, I can’t think of a single thing about going to the barber shop that I don’t hate.
- I hate the invariably awful selection of tawdry magazines, vintage 90's hairstyle catalogues, and tragically overused newspapers.
- I hate the self-loathing that ensues when I find myself immediately engrossed in a month-old tabloid punting a since-disproven sex scandal between two decidedly unattractive celebrities.
- I hate the six seconds of awkward suspense that follows the seemingly innocuous, but dreadfully menacing: “so how would you like it done today?”.
- I hate the feeling of failure, when, despite feverishly scanning the endless mélange of overly sculpted, mulletted hair models sneering down at me from the shop walls, I find nothing more creative to say than “same as last time”.
- When my barber confirms what “last time” consisted of, I hate hearing that my entire hair style can be described in terms of half and full integers, rather than in much cooler, oxymoronic terms like funky-neo-retro.

I then really hate that I’m required to sit still for an agonizingly unspecified period of time in the veritable straight jacket that is the barber’s smock - which has become ever-more excruciating due to the ever-increasing separation anxiety developing between my iPhone and I. These cruel armless detention devices leave me with few options to pass the time other then to converse with my personal demon barber of Fleet Street.  I usually venture out there with a bit of small talk (which I also hate), and follow that up with a little pretend nodding off (at the risk of accidental impalement… which I generally hate), but eventually, I'm forced to attempt having a more interesting and substantial conversation.

Now, although I certainly do enjoy an interesting and substantial conversation, with my barber the topic invariably rushes towards politics like Riley towards exposed wiring, and so I hate navigating the deftly planted minefield my barber lays out for me. He knows that I’m American, and it seems that either he, his family, or one of his best friends hail from every regime we’ve decided to aggravate, attack, or clumsily negotiate oil rights - nay - nation building agreements with over the past 30 years. Painfully aware that he’s holding an 8 inch scissors to my head, and will soon be using a straight razor to do the edgework, I quickly manoeuvre the conversation back to some genre of small talk or simply cocoon myself into a nerve wracking, awkward silence (which, shockingly, I hate).

So recently, I decided to give myself a holiday from this simply unbearable torture. I must give credit to a golfing buddy of mine who gave me the idea. I hadn’t seen him in several months, and when we met up for a round of tomduffery, I noticed that his normally neat and tidy hairstyle had been supplanted by tawny flowing locks - quite reflective of Richard Branson. I naturally opined that he must paying a fortune at some celebrity Mayfair salon, but as it turned out, he was simply growing it out… no styling, no products, no trimming at all! I was sold. I was going to follow his lead, avoid one of my least favorite things, and end up looking like Richard Branson too!

Well, as most of you are probably aware, all follicles are not created equal, and in no time at all, I was using an environmentally-frightening amount of gel and hairspray just to appear respectable enough to attend client meetings, networking events, and even the lonesome visit to my local pub. I compounded my issues with a bit of DIY-Fail manscaping on my sideburns and eyebrows.  Finally, looking like the victim of some horrible fraternity hazing prank, I gave in. Not wanting for despair and defeat, I trudged back to the barber’s for the usual “two-five” only to find the front door locked and no one to be seen (I found out later that this anomaly occurs when my barber is in the back tending to his ablutions). Against all odds, this happened the following week as well, which I took as an unequivocal sign that I should give it a little more time.

Well, Lord have mercy… an amazing thing happened. Shortly after, the Chia-Dingo atop my head began to miraculously render in a debatably stylish fashion. No longer was I the stereotypically neat, poorly dressed, American businessman… I had transformed into the arguably-slightly cool, poorly dressed businessman from an indeterminate North American location. I was redeemed! At least for a couple of weeks until my coif morphed into an even more catastrophic train wreck. I waited that one out as well, praying for a second coming of the hairstyle genie, but things simply got worse and worse until I raised the white flag and donned the black barber's smock again.

As mentioned previously, I am no longer a Cricklewood Yankee. I have moved around the corner from Britain’s national stadium - Wembley Park - making me… well… I reckon a Wembley Park Yankee. Thankfully, our new neighborhood is a far cry from the environs of Yankee Stadium (which, dishearteningly, most Brits believe is America’s national stadium). Our new place is a veritable mansion compared to our previous digs, and I simply cannot get enough “fourth steps”. Some nights, I spend hours taking fourth, and even fifth steps IN THE SAME DIRECTION without having to navigate around some baby toy or toxic piece of furniture (see my first blog for a description of the old place)! It is simply the most glorious thing for me. We’ve had to put down throw rugs so that I don’t create obvious pacing paths. Sometimes, the vast increase in space gives me a touch of vertigo, forcing me to sit down Indian-style, close my eyes and repeat the Jabberwocky until I regain my orientation. Unfortunately, Riley began imitating this decidedly unbrillig behavior, and so I’m seeing a homoeopathic specialist to get my slithy toves gimbling normally again.

Alas, I would be decidedly misguided to think that my friends and family care much about my follicle follies or accommodation adventures as I am no longer of the “new generation”. As I cling desperately to ever-fading delusions of grandeur, I reflect upon the chains of middle-generationality that shackle us in the cave of irrelevance. Even my own parents are no longer interested in me beyond the possibility that I may produce more progeny for them to pamper.

And so… Riley is doing very well indeed. He recently started day care, and from the moment he arrived he started working the staff as only a true Metz ever could. He kicked it off with a Chuckie-like giggle fit that proved irresistible to the ladies on call. When the room manager held him for the first time, he deftly executed a textbook exaggerated, seemingly never ending reach-out to her face (using the classic “I don’t really know where your head is at… well maybe I do… no… damn it, I just can’t find it” style) that would make Swayze and Moore look absolutely summer stock. It was Zeno’s paradox in real life… the world simply stood still… and OMG he still hasn’t gotten there.

The downside of overplaying the cute card is that all the child minders want their turn playing with the happy Germerican baby, fomenting an insatiable need for attention and human interaction. Riley used to be content sitting on my lap, Dufnering away as I churned through my morning eMail, read up on the latest news and nabbed a cheeky game of Backgammon to reset the synapses. Now, he expects me to continuously entertain him as he churns through his morning eMail, noshes Cheerios and checks out the latest sales at Babies ‘R Us. The little man is indeed doing well, and I just keep thinking that if he’s this happy and this much fun today, he’s going to be a simply life-changing pleasure as a teenager.

Hoping all is well with everyone around the world!