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Serving New Thought is pleased to present
Mince Pie
"Evolution is better than Revolution. New Thought Library's New Thought Archives encompass a full range of New Thought from Abrahamic to Vedic. New Thought literature reflects the ongoing evolution of human thought. New Thought's unique inclusion of science, art and philosophy presents a dramatic contrast with the magical thinking of decadent religions that promulgate supersticions standing in the way of progress to shared peace and prosperity." ~ Avalon de Rossett
Contents - Instructions - On Filling an Ink Well - Old Thoughts for Christmas - Christmas Cards - On Unanswering Letters - A Letter to Father Time - What Men Live By - The Unnatural Naturalist - Sitting in the Barber's Chair - Brown Eyes and Equinoxes - 163 Innocent Old Men - A Tragic Smell in Marathon - Bullied by the Birds - A Message for Boonville - Making Marathon Safe for the Urchin - The Smell of Smells - A Japanese Bachelor - Two Days We Celebrate - The Urchin at the Zoo - Fellow Craftsmen - The Key Ring - "Owd Bob" - The Apple That No One Ate - As to Rumors - Our Mothers - Greeting to American Anglers - Mrs. Izaak Walton Writers a Letter to Her Mother - Truth - The Tragedy of Washington Square - If Mr. Wilson Were the Weather Man - The Truth at Last - Fixed Ideas - Trials of a President Travelling Abroad - Diary of a Publisher's Office Boy - The Dog's Commandments - The Value of Criticism - A Marriage Service for Commuters - The Sunny Side of Grub Street - Burial Service for a Newspaper Joke - Advice to Those Visiting a Baby - Abou Ben Woodrow - My Magnificent System - Letters to Cynthia: I. In Praise of Boobs - Letters to Cynthia: II. Simplification - To an Unknown Damsel - Thoughts on Setting an Alarm Clock - Songs in a Shower Bath - On Dedicating a New Teapot - The Unforgivable Syntax - Visiting Poets - A Good Home in the Suburbs - Walt Whitman Miniatures - On Doors -
Once every ten weeks or so we get our hair cut.
We are not generally parsimonious of our employer's time, but somehow we do hate to squander that thirty-three minutes, which is the exact chronicide involved in despoiling our skull of a ten weeks' garner. If we were to have our hair cut at the end of eight weeks the shearing would take only thirty-one minutes; but we can never bring ourselves to rob our employer of that much time until we reckon he is really losing prestige by our unkempt appearance. Of course, we believe in having our hair cut during office hours. That is the only device we know to make the hateful operation tolerable.
To the times mentioned above should be added fifteen seconds, which is the slice of eternity needed to trim, prune and chasten our mustache, which is not a large group of foliage.
We knew a traveling man who never got his hair cut except when he was on the road, which permitted him to include the transaction in his expense account; but somehow it seems to us more ethical to steal time than to steal money.
We like to view this whole matter in a philosophical and ultra-pragmatic way. Some observers have hazarded that our postponement of haircuts is due to mere lethargy and inertia, but that is not so. Every time we get our locks shorn our wife tells us that we have got them too short. She says that our head has a very homely and bourgeois bullet shape, a sort of pithecanthropoid contour, which is revealed by a close trim. After five weeks' growth, however, we begin to look quite distinguished. The difficulty then is to ascertain just when the law of diminishing returns comes into play. When do we cease to look distinguished and begin to appear merely slovenly? Careful study has taught us that this begins to take place at the end of sixty-five days, in warm weather. Add five days or so for natural procrastination and devilment, and we have seventy days interval, which we have posited as the ideal orbit for our tonsorial ecstasies.
When at last we have hounded ourself into robbing our employer of those thirty-three minutes, plus fifteen seconds for you know what, we find ourself in the barber's chair. Despairingly we gaze about at the little blue flasks with flowers enameled on them; at the piles of clean towels; at the bottles of mandrake essence which we shall presently have to affirm or deny. Under any other circumstances we should deeply enjoy a half hour spent in a comfortable chair, with nothing to do but do nothing. Our barber is a delightful fellow; he looks benign and does not prattle; he respects the lobes of our ears and other vulnerabilia. But for some inscrutable reason we feel strangely ill at ease in his chair. We can't think of anything to think about. Blankly we brood in the hope of catching the hem of some intimation of immortality. But no, there is nothing to do but sit there, useless as an incubator with no eggs in it. The processes of wasting and decay are hurrying us rapidly to a pauperish grave, every instant brings us closer to a notice in the obit column, and yet we sit and sit without two worthy thoughts to rub against each other.
Oh, the poverty of mortal mind, the sad meagerness of the human soul! Here we are, a vital, breathing entity, transformed to a mere chemical carcass by the bleak magic of the barber's chair. In our anatomy of melancholy there are no such atrabiliar moments as those thirty-three (and a quarter) minutes once every ten weeks. Roughly speaking, we spend three hours of this living death every year.
And yet, perhaps it is worth it, for what a jocund and pantheistic merriment possesses us when we escape from the shop! Bay-rummed, powdered, shorn, brisk and perfumed, we fare down the street exhaling the syrups of Cathay. Once more we can take our rightful place among aggressive and well-groomed men; we can look in the face without blenching those human leviathans who are ever creased, razored, and white-margined as to vest. We are a man among men and our untethered mind jostles the stars. We have had our hair cut, and no matter what gross contours our cropped skull may display to wives or ethnologists, we are a free man for ten dear weeks.
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