My Husband, the Ninja

I ran across one of my old diaries, entitled The Ramona Quimby Diary, the other day. The Ramona Quimby Diary, named for the popular children's book series by Beverly Cleary, provided prompts for budding child writers such as "My best friend is ______ because _______ ."

I found one of my responses to the July 5, 1985 prompts particularly interesting. It read "The person I like best in my class is" - Jacob Cohen - "because" - he is quiet.

Even at age eight, I knew what I wanted in a guy.

As I entered the dating world, my family evaluated my boyfriends according to how much they talked. Of course, I was not aware of this until my dad said, after I had been married a couple of years, "I never liked that one boy you dated in college. He talked too much. You would have never lasted with a guy like that."

That was my dad's way of saying I needed someone who could stay quiet and listen for enormously long periods of time while I chattered incessantly about some book or movie or song or opera or feminist topic.

And I found just that in my husband, Dan the Ninja.

When my parents first met Dan, they raved about his great listening skills and his quiet, calm personality.

But then we started to realize that, occasionally, Dan would just disappear into thin air. We would be sitting in a restaurant or at a baseball game or some other social outing, when I'd notice the empty seat next to me.

"Where's Dan?" I would ask.

"I don't know. Did you see him leave?" my mom would say.

"No. Did you?" I would ask my dad or my brother.

And they would say, "No. Where did he go?" or "I didn't hear anything. He's really quiet."

This conversation would continue for about five more minutes or until Dan returned, whichever came first.

After several instances of misplacing my husband in restaurants and at various social events, I asked him how he was able to slip away, unbeknownst to any of our friends, family members, or me.

"Because . . . I'm like a Ninja!" was his reply, as he made little ninja gestures with his hands.

"Oh. That's nice," I was so glad I had asked.

A few weeks ago, Dan and I attended the Weiser Fiddle Festival with a couple from our church. As we stood in the will-call line, our friends suddenly asked, "Where's Dan?"

I looked toward the empty spot next to me in line.

"He disappears all the time," I explained. "He thinks he's a ninja."

"Oh. That's nice," they said.

So, if you're dating one of those quiet, mysterious types, watch out. You could end up with a ninja on your hands.

Hooters for Haircuts

The other night, a male acquaintance told me about a visit to a local hair salon called Tight Cuts. He said the stylist gave him a massage and asked about his plans for the evening, and when he told her he had none, she tried to set him up on a date with one of the other stylists.

He asked my brother and husband, who were also privy to this conversation, if they had ever been to Tight Cuts.

"No, but I'm going now," was my brother's reply.

"Becky gets mad at me if I even look at the building when we drive by," was my husband's reply.

He didn't ask me if I had ever been, for obvious reasons.

Let’s take a moment to discuss Tight Cuts, or as I wittily call it “Hooters for Haircuts.” Tight Cuts is a noble and dignified business establishment that daily graces Boise with its presence. Tight Cuts is a hair salon that goes way above and beyond the call of a, ahem, haircut.

The Tight Cuts radio commercial advertises female employees dressed in black leather and tight white shirts, hence the name "Tight Cuts." It promises female hair stylists who ooze sex appeal and perform slow massages on the neck and scalp. The commercial clenches the deal by telling men that Tight Cuts will “treat you like a star.” We all know that the way to a man’s heart is through his ego.

According to its website, Tight Cuts is a hair salon that promises to transform a man’s haircut from a “boring chore to wanting more.”

And the men who frequent the joint are obviously there for the deep conversation and the – uh – outstanding customer service. One man quoted on the website describes his stylist in this manner, “the lady is smokin’, and who can complain about a hottie like her giving you a massage?”

As if men weren’t inundated with enough unrealistic images of gorgeous, subservient women who cater to every whim of the male desire, here is yet another industry that has tapped into the lucrative business of exploiting the female form.

I don’t expect that the Hooters or Tokyo Massages or Gentlemen’s Clubs or Tight Cuts of the world will ever disappear. It's just too bad that our society makes it more profitable for a woman to be employed on the basis of her physical appearance as opposed to her - well - any other other attribute that requires a brain.

On Turning 30

Last week, I turned thirty. I also found a gray hair. And I realized I wasn't in my twenties anymore. Just in case I didn't get the message, my family took me out to dinner for my birthday, made me wear a black lei, and handed me a black rose and a box of Correctol.

I'm not worried about aging, although I haven't always been so content about life's maturation process. When I turned sixteen, I spent the whole day crying, locked in a closet. Sixteen brought with it too much responsibility - learning how to drive, thinking about college . . . I suppose I wasn't the most logical sixteen-year-old.

Even though I'm thrilled to be thirty, I think my husband (Dan just turned thirty in April) and I may be going through an early mid-life crisis. A few weeks ago, we were discussing moving to Barcelona or maybe Ireland and giving up our careers to write books (that would be my dream) or program video games (that would be Dan's).

Then Dan said, "You don't like to fly over water" and that ended our mid-life crisis conversation.

"You know what your mother and I did during our early mid-life crises?" my dad said during a visit to Boise. "We had you - hint, hint!"

Yes, it seems that age thirty is also the age when people start asking THAT question.

From friends who have experienced the wonder of parenthood to mother-in-laws who say, "It's Mother's Day - I'm allowed to ask" to fathers who are saving your old Fisher-Price toys "just in case," turning thirty means you have to come up with a really good excuse as to why you don't have kids and why you're not even trying.

I just tell everybody I already have 550 kids (my music students), the best method of legalized birth control available.

Aside from a non-existent maternal instinct and a couple of black balloons, I've had a pretty smooth ride into age thirty. And sorry, Dad. For our early mid-life crises, instead of having babies, Dan and I bought new mountain bikes instead. But at least you won't have to worry about us moving to Ireland.