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Hair is where you find it. My favorite hair salon name, “A Cut Above” contains several hidden meanings. I stopped going to a barber when a ten minute shearing cost twenty dollars plus tip. Now my wife hacks away every two weeks, turning my shirts into an itchy torture chamber and leaving little red scissor spots on my ear lobes. I daren’t say anything critical or I’ll be back at the barbershop in a minute.

I wouldn’t spend a dime on a hair restorer, but a windfall bottle of (ladies) Rogaine invigorated my scalp for a month to no avail. I really don’t care if I have a high (!) forehead, but vanity must out. What I can’t understand is why God thought it necessary for inch- long hairs to appear on my ear lobes and a mop of fast growing stragglers to hang out of my nose. The shaving razor takes care of the mutant lone hairs on the tip of my nose, but I sometimes to forget to service my eyebrows until they start to look like a jungle attractive to itinerant fleas.

I just wish all this follicle activity would transfer to my scalp. Once in a hair salon in Germany, the newest member of the cutting staff was terribly embarrassed when the old-timers glued a patch of hair cuttings under the armpits on her winter coat. Unfortunately, she didn’t discover it until the snickers and stares on the crowded bus directed her eyes to her armpits. LOL.

One day, after following me down the stairs, my wife informed me that I was developing a thin spot on the crown of my head. As if I wasn’t aware of it for a year. Now I look at the hats in the stores with less of a jaundiced eye. I wonder if I’d look ridiculous in that Irish tam-o-shanter or if eyes would shunt away in laughter at the sight of me in an oversized cap with flaps. I’ve bought several peaked caps in the last few years and they all ended up on a restaurant seat or decorating the lost and found box at the library.

A recent appearance on a barbershop show had our antiquated quartet in a West Indies straw hats in honor of the Jamaican song we sang. In the video we looked like four retired gangsters on the way to a Mardi Gras party. I liked the line in the Randy Travis song, “If it all fell out, I’d love you anyway.” My philosophy, exactly.

I like to write how-to’s and anecdotes for Pearlsoup.com.

The day wasn’t going well already. You know how it is, you wake up in the morning with that migraine or the pounding headache in the back of your head. The kids are up at the crack of dawn (literally) and they keep coming into the bedroom to “help you” wake up. You fumble your way down stairs to a screaming chorus of, “Daddy, she won’t quit looking at me!” And then you have the old reliable “Hey! That’s my stuff!” And what are those comments without Back-up Plan ‘B’: “Hey! That’s my spot!” was bellowed out as the kids fought over the fluffy pillow in my office while watching Little House on the Prairie.

Now don’t get me wrong, my kids are great and I love them with all my heart but they do have their days.

I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I fixed my morning lifeline, a steaming cup of Joe (which was destined to be spilled all over my desktop, keyboard and carpet!). After cleaning up the mess, I headed back into the kitchen but stopped half way there to remove the tiny doll shoe embedded in the bottom of my bare foot. The kids were at it again. That was it! I was at the boiling point and I could not tolerate this any longer!

I limped into the kitchen and there they were…lined up like little soldiers waiting to be disciplined. They looked as if they longed for, no, were begging for the stern discipline that they had coming…the bag of flour, the sugar bowl, and the salt shaker.

I threw the ingredients together in a powdery fury to the chorus of a clanking, ceramic bowl. There it was. The sun peeked through the partially drawn shades in the kitchen, gently embracing the soft, pale contents of the mixing bowl. The dough stared back at me, yearning to be thrown, rolled and disciplined.

I picked up the gooey substance and slammed it on the countertop! Pounding, pushing, pulling and kneading until it begged me for the rolling pin. I glanced at the built-in drawer under the oven and quickly produced a rolling pin. Without mercy I rolled, bunched up, and rolled again until the dough cried out, “I’ve had enough!”

For the ‘Coupe de Gras’, I placed the submissive heap in a bread pan and threw it into the oven. “There now”, I said to the unbaked loaf. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Forty-five minutes later I was rewarded with a delicious, toasted aroma that crept through the house like fog on a cool morning. Peace at last. The stress was gone. I felt great.

About the Author

Terry Stokely is a twenty-five year veteran of the baking industry. After being permenantly laid off in December of 2004, he enjoys spending time with his family and promoting his new ebook Home Baked Goodness with Bread, Rolls and Muffins. The new ebook, which he co-authored with his wife Dawn, can be found at http://www.homebakedfavorites.com