Kirk Cousins and Me

 We use the phrase "the holidays" for that stretch of celebratory events with friends and family that often runs from Saint Lucy's Day (December 13) past the winter solstice, Christmas, New Years, and even, for some, as far as the Orthodox Christmas on January 7, with concerts, dinners, religious observances, maybe a bonfire or two.

And then the morning arrives when you realize it's all over and a fresh new year is staring you in the face. That's a good time to get a haircut. 

I drove out to one of the chains in Minnetonka—Great Clips, I think. Now that Fantastic Sam's has raised their rates, I've been shopping around. This particular storefront is sandwiched between a Caribou Coffee and a Wild Bird Store, with Trader Joe's right around the corner, so it has potential.  

The monitor said it would be a 23-minute wait, but I'd brought along something to read: Romanticism—a Very Short Introduction from Oxford University Press. I chose this book not because I was in a romantic mood, but because it's the smallest paperback I own: 4-1/4 by 6-3/4, and only 3/8 of an inch thick. It would be nice if they had a similar volume called German Romanticism, because that particular group—Lessing, the Schlegel brothers, Schelling, Schleiermacher, the Humboldt brothers, Novalis—is a tough nut to crack.

The wait wasn't all that long. After the stylist had set me down and draped the black sheet over my chest she said, "So, what have you got going today?"

"I was afraid you'd ask me that," I said.

She grumbled something about the Vikings on course to lose to the Bears, and I replied, "I'm not much of a football fan. I watch the highlights sometimes. I wouldn't recognize Curt Cousins if I passed him in the street."

Pause. "I also cut hair down in Eagan," she said. Another pause. "I cut Curt Cousins' hair. His name is Kirk." Really?

She informed me that he's a very nice guy, likes Minnesota, sends his kids to public schools, always gives her a $50 tip.

I was happy to hear it. "But Tom Brady isn't a nice guy," she continued. "Mahomes, now he's very nice."

"Well, he seems pretty nice on the Subway commercials," I said. I presume she doesn't cut Brady's hair, but heard all this from Cousins.

"Kirk  isn't sure how long he wants to keep playing," she said. "One thing money can't buy is your health."

"It's true. You're probably too young to remember Robert Smith," I said.

"What? I remember Tommy Mason, Fran Tarkenton."

"OK. I believe Smith retired in his prime and got a law degree."

"Back when the Vikings played at the Met, you could meet the players after the game," she said. "It's not like that now."

"I saw Joe Kapp play at the Met," I said. "We lost 33-3 to the Rams. In the snow. It wasn't much fun."

I was going to mention that I knew Tony Oliva's daughter, but thought better of it. I don't know her that well. Then again, how well does she know Mahomes?

Meanwhile, she was doing a careful job on my tangled gray mop. But she wasn't wearing a mask, and it suddenly occurred to me that Kirk Cousins isn't vaccinated. In fact, he had Covid just two weeks ago. Hmmm. I wonder when he got his last haircut?

I was going to ask my stylist if she was vaccinated, but what would be the point? If she said No, would I leap up, grab my coat, and head for the door? Not likely.

The Vikings ended up winning the game. When I got home I tuned in and saw a few minutes of the fourth quarter, which included two wild, open-field Viking interceptions that reminded me of my touch football days. The win was meaningless, of course. The Vikings are out of the playoffs. All well and good. Why prolong the agony? And the Australian Open is starting any day now. Spring is right around the corner.

Later that afternoon I was rummaging through a desk drawer and made two important discoveries. One was a sheet of paper containing the lyrics to a French-Canadian shoe-passing game called Sorry Sue, written out long-hand, that we used to play at Christmas time.

Savez vous passer la traderailera

Savey vous, passer, ceci sans vous trompez

But we sing it like this:

Sorry Sue passey suree suri, surroo

Sorry Sue, passey, suree suri surroo

The other was an envelope containing three photos. One was a snapshot of the author Jon Hassler on the deck of a sailboat, one was a photo of Norton Stillman, circa 1980, at a baseball game out at Met Stadium, and one was a picture of the Bookmen ad hoc touch football squad from (just a guess) the mid-1980s.

There's me, Mike, Chuck, Roy, Jim, Rod, and John. Mike became a cop, Chuck now runs a cash register at a co-op in Grand Marais, Rod is a Unitarian minister in sunny California, and John works the floor at The Home Depot in St. Louis Park. Every time I run into him he says the same thing: "If I'm ever on 'So You Want to be a Millionaire' you'll be my lifeline." OK.

What happened to Roy and Jim? I have no idea.