We Was Robbed
Recently, I acquired a new nickname. It was one that dredged up a part of my past that I thought that I wanted to bury and keep buried. But, after considering it for, oh, six seconds, I decided that I really liked it and had me wondering why no one had mentioned it before?
Now, before I continue on, I just have to let you know that I have had few nicknames. With a last name “Loop”, people tend to gravitate towards using a nickname based around the “Loop” aspect. Loopis, Looper, Fruit Loop, Loopy, et. al. are all ones that I grew up with and still hear today. Rarely do I ever hear anyone call me “Jeff” and when I do, I assuredly assume that they have made a mistake and will correct themselves at any moment. The last person to call me “Jeff” was my mother when she said, “Now Jeff...” and then I woke up to the paramedics trying to inject me with some sort of truth serum, that, undoubtedly, came at the suggestion of my mother. I think she wants to find out all the horrible childhood memories that I have so that she can have them erased. But that is a different topic for a different day.
This next paragraph is somewhat of an aside to all those that I work with, so feel free to skip this little part. “Jo Jo” is a nickname I acquired within the first few weeks of starting my new job. It was given to me by a clueless dolt whom I don't think ever knew my name. He wanted to call me “Joe” but realized that it was wrong and he stuttered a little and thus “Jo Jo” was born. An idiot, truly. Ah, that feels better.
Meanwhile, back at the barn...
The new nickname given to me is “Jeffro Tull”. This is a recent addition to the nickname catalog. My first reaction to this newbie was that of utter disgust. This is because of the Ian Anderson (bug eyed and standing on one leg????????), flutist, “sitting on a park bench eying little girls with bad intent” and first winner of the new heavy metal category for the Grammy's factor. Once the first wave crashed by, I remembered “Locomotive Breath” and all was okay again. I examined my true feelings (sixth time in my entire existence) and as I dug deeper, I came to truly appreciate this new tag.
Here's is the long bomb to the past. When I was 10 – 12 years (I am too lazy to do the math and figure out the exact age) I had an afro. The image in my head is very clear and very vivid and very painful. And, unfortunately, there is photographic evidence that this is true. May those photographs never surface when I'm in the midst of my presidential campaign, for I would have to drop out of the running in shame.
Just to be clear, it was all the rage for boys to have perms. One just has to look at pictures of the 1983 Edmonton Oilers to see the trend in full force (one that many Canadians have yet to crawl out from under). My brother and I begged our pretty liberal mother to give us our perms. Now, knowing how fickle little boys can be, our mother relented, somewhat, and told us that she would set our hair in curlers without any chemicals so that we could see what the final product would look like. If we liked what was created upon our heads, she would head to the store to grab a box of Toni or Ogilvie home perm and finalize the transaction.
Torture. Pure torture. Unholy torture. Sitting in the kitchen while my mother pulled and tugged on my hair, I knew that this may be a bad idea. Ripping out clumps at the roots, I'm pretty sure of, when wrapping my hair (and, eventually, my brother's) around the various pink and sea foam green curling rods and seating the hard plastic barbs into my scalp. This part took a good half hour. Then, I had to sit with the curlers in my head for a good hour to simulate the entire chemically curly process. Agony.
When the kitchen timer sounded, it was time to be freed from the shackles of inhumanity. My mother carefully moved the curling rods from my head, ran a comb through the new 'do and sent me off the the bathroom to check out the new “Jeff”. How she kept a straight face during the unveiling is beyond me to this day. The mirror was quite cruel. It took every ounce of my being to keep from crying hysterically. And, my brother's afro looked no better. My god, two little white kids with unnatural looking afros standing in the bathroom together trying act as though this is what we had wanted. To make matter worse, she paraded us outside (middle of winter, freezing) so that she could take pictures of us. We looked like someone had just stolen our Christmas tree. Sad little faces we sported. Our only saving grace was that my mother had the foresight not to make our perms permanent so that once the documentation process was finished, we were free to take a bath and wash our curls away.
That is one of the last times that I have decided to mess with the hair, save for the mullet. I learned a lesson that experience can balance impulse and naivete. Sometimes, mothers do know best. And that sometimes, a well controlled fall can be the best teacher.
Now, before I continue on, I just have to let you know that I have had few nicknames. With a last name “Loop”, people tend to gravitate towards using a nickname based around the “Loop” aspect. Loopis, Looper, Fruit Loop, Loopy, et. al. are all ones that I grew up with and still hear today. Rarely do I ever hear anyone call me “Jeff” and when I do, I assuredly assume that they have made a mistake and will correct themselves at any moment. The last person to call me “Jeff” was my mother when she said, “Now Jeff...” and then I woke up to the paramedics trying to inject me with some sort of truth serum, that, undoubtedly, came at the suggestion of my mother. I think she wants to find out all the horrible childhood memories that I have so that she can have them erased. But that is a different topic for a different day.
This next paragraph is somewhat of an aside to all those that I work with, so feel free to skip this little part. “Jo Jo” is a nickname I acquired within the first few weeks of starting my new job. It was given to me by a clueless dolt whom I don't think ever knew my name. He wanted to call me “Joe” but realized that it was wrong and he stuttered a little and thus “Jo Jo” was born. An idiot, truly. Ah, that feels better.
Meanwhile, back at the barn...
The new nickname given to me is “Jeffro Tull”. This is a recent addition to the nickname catalog. My first reaction to this newbie was that of utter disgust. This is because of the Ian Anderson (bug eyed and standing on one leg????????), flutist, “sitting on a park bench eying little girls with bad intent” and first winner of the new heavy metal category for the Grammy's factor. Once the first wave crashed by, I remembered “Locomotive Breath” and all was okay again. I examined my true feelings (sixth time in my entire existence) and as I dug deeper, I came to truly appreciate this new tag.
Here's is the long bomb to the past. When I was 10 – 12 years (I am too lazy to do the math and figure out the exact age) I had an afro. The image in my head is very clear and very vivid and very painful. And, unfortunately, there is photographic evidence that this is true. May those photographs never surface when I'm in the midst of my presidential campaign, for I would have to drop out of the running in shame.
Just to be clear, it was all the rage for boys to have perms. One just has to look at pictures of the 1983 Edmonton Oilers to see the trend in full force (one that many Canadians have yet to crawl out from under). My brother and I begged our pretty liberal mother to give us our perms. Now, knowing how fickle little boys can be, our mother relented, somewhat, and told us that she would set our hair in curlers without any chemicals so that we could see what the final product would look like. If we liked what was created upon our heads, she would head to the store to grab a box of Toni or Ogilvie home perm and finalize the transaction.
Torture. Pure torture. Unholy torture. Sitting in the kitchen while my mother pulled and tugged on my hair, I knew that this may be a bad idea. Ripping out clumps at the roots, I'm pretty sure of, when wrapping my hair (and, eventually, my brother's) around the various pink and sea foam green curling rods and seating the hard plastic barbs into my scalp. This part took a good half hour. Then, I had to sit with the curlers in my head for a good hour to simulate the entire chemically curly process. Agony.
When the kitchen timer sounded, it was time to be freed from the shackles of inhumanity. My mother carefully moved the curling rods from my head, ran a comb through the new 'do and sent me off the the bathroom to check out the new “Jeff”. How she kept a straight face during the unveiling is beyond me to this day. The mirror was quite cruel. It took every ounce of my being to keep from crying hysterically. And, my brother's afro looked no better. My god, two little white kids with unnatural looking afros standing in the bathroom together trying act as though this is what we had wanted. To make matter worse, she paraded us outside (middle of winter, freezing) so that she could take pictures of us. We looked like someone had just stolen our Christmas tree. Sad little faces we sported. Our only saving grace was that my mother had the foresight not to make our perms permanent so that once the documentation process was finished, we were free to take a bath and wash our curls away.
That is one of the last times that I have decided to mess with the hair, save for the mullet. I learned a lesson that experience can balance impulse and naivete. Sometimes, mothers do know best. And that sometimes, a well controlled fall can be the best teacher.
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