Vanity, exercise and diversity.

30th November 

Yesterday I went for a haircut at the local barbershop. I try to time it when the kids are at school. This is so I don’t have to wait for two hours, wedged on the long bench, next to a mum and her extraordinarily long-haired triplets.
My brother says having a haircut always cheers him up. A long time confidant of Churchill’s ‘black dog’ and fellow cancer sufferer, he should know what he’s talking about. He recently told me he must be; ‘such a vain nit-wit to think so.’
I sent him a quote by Jerome K Jerome;
‘I don’t believe any man ever existed without vanity, and if he did he would be an extremely uncomfortable person to have anything to do with’

My mum once invited a tramp for tea. I was only eight and we had fish fingers. Although it was my favourite, I wanted nothing to do with proceedings.  The smell of his musty jacket and the sight of his unkempt hair had completely put me off. I think that’s what it means- not that we shouldn’t all have a tramp to dinner.

My wife always tells me I’m vain. I wish I wasn’t. And I wish the house didn’t have so many mirrors; especially now I look so dreadfully tired.
Anyway, I decided to prescribe myself some of my brother’s medicine and set off to the barbers.

I took a seat, and smugly glanced at the emptiness of the seats around me. All three cutting chairs were occupied, so I picked up a copy of the nearest publication. An article about facial hair implants for men! I read on, unable to believe that someone would be so vain, that they would undergo painful surgery to obtain designer stubble to ‘look like David Beckham.’
Do people really think so little- or much of themselves that they must resort to this? I thought.

I suffered the usual angst about which cutter would finish first and beckon me to the chair. To my relief, although the woman finished cutting first, she had to nip to the loo, so I secured a place with my favourite; A nice, chatty lad with a hipster beard.

The TV above me was too high up to watch; especially with my head bowed to avoid the fine hair that fell onto my eyebrows as he snipped and clipped.
I heard the terrible news though. That a Brazilian football team had met their deaths, whilst flying to play in a cup-final.
I’m the fortunate one. They had no chance to right wrongs or say their goodbyes. Nor their loved ones. I looked up as the mirror was applied to the back of my head- to see a young fan being interviewed outside the football club where they played; Tears streaming down his spectacled face. Unable to comprehend his grief, he turns away- Tragic.

“That’s fine thanks,” I said.

Today I went to the gym; the first time in over a month. It was a cold but clear and sunny morning and I needed to force myself to go. To get fit for the treatment ahead. Exercise was good- my Oncologist told me so.

I took my bag into the changing rooms and shoved it in a locker. My combination lock was playing up and I couldn’t open the blasted thing.
After wasting about ten minutes fiddling with it, I decided to leave my bag behind the counter.
I knew one of the staff and he kindly obliged.
I jumped on the bike for twenty, then some bench-press.

I saw a familiar face, straining every sinew on the fixed weights. I didn’t know his name but he always seemed to be in the gym. I’ll hazard a guess he’s in his late sixties or early seventies. Although I’d never spoken to him- I admired his tenacity. When I went to the gym before my diagnosis, I would see him on the bike or rower; going like the clappers. And when I finished my session, about an hour and a half later, he would change exercises and get on with something else with equal intensity- As if fighting off the harbingers of death.

He is tall and painfully thin, but the fittest person in the Gym bar none.

Today as I walked past, I raised my eyebrows, smiled and said “Hi”- probably the most we ever said to one another.

He sometimes raised an eyebrow back, or ignored me in favour or his fervent exertions. Today he looked me square in the eye and said, “How are you?”
Taken aback by this sudden chattiness and the sincere tone; I blurted, “Well, not that great. I’ve got cancer and I’m trying to get back to the gym.”

We folk always ask each other, ‘How are you,’ but don’t really want an answer if it isn’t ‘fine thanks,’ or something similar. My new release from inhibitions and former honesty had combined to make a deadly mix.

Still feeling liberated and a little ashamed of my selfish reply, I was astounded to hear his response;

“I’ve had Cancer, he said; “15 years ago.” He gestured head down and keep going, throwing his arms forward to illustrate the point. His eyes fixed ahead – focused on the prize of life.

He went on to describe his testicle, the size of a fist. He demonstrated; this time, by waving a bony fist in may face. I resisted a hearty guffaw, enjoying the mime.

He had also had both hips replaced. He certainly didn’t move like it. Look how fit he is; I thought. Even heart surgery had not defeated him.
“I won’t make old bones so just gotta keep going,” he added; with no trace of irony or mirth on his face.
Perhaps I had misjudged his age, I thought. And he was only twenty- three!

He explained his fitness was was all down to his mindset- “Not like these peacocks you see strutting about- they laugh at me you know- none of them knows what real fitness is all about!”

In a former life he had been a PTI in the Army. He told me a story; “There was fella who thought he was really hard. He was bullying a black recruit. Me and the other PTI’s got him into the gym. We had to teach him a lesson; not to break him- just teach him a lesson.” A ‘beasting,’ as it’s known in the trade.
The bully was subdued, and much vomiting later, learned to live in harmony with his mates. He fulfilled the life he was destined to live.
“None of us knows how long we’ve got.” He added.
I could see that I needed to learn a lesson too.

He touched me on the shoulder and wished me well.
Now that’s inspiration!

 

Footnote:
I couldn’t sleep after writing this and got up before the birds to add the following;
I recalled the conversation in the gym, with my new mate. I hadn’t asked the significance of the colour of the bullied recruit’s skin, in the story he told.
I’d like to think it was significant and didn’t need explanation.And that the concept of right and wrong, was well established; even in the ‘olden days,’ as my children put it.
Today, especially in the Police Service, we have the modern ‘diversity’ movement. I have struggled and failed in many interview boards for the right to permanently wear my Inspector pips. Chief among my failings, has been to answer fully the ‘diversity’ question, which offers the highest score on the markers pad. That and my refusal to spout platitudes, read from a book. Often though, this is not a straight question, but is disguised behind another.
In all the new and latest language, telling me what diversity is; I am none the wiser.
Is it about treating people differently, or the same? Or about treating them ‘according to their needs?’ Is it about naming the different strands of diversity or some strategy or other. I’m confused!

I do know that I am now the lowest common denominator. Not by words of course- too obvious! But in deeds and my absence of success. I’m okay with it now- especially as the meek will inherit the earth and it is probably my turn to be downtrodden a bit.

I prefer the Bible with its no-nonsense; ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’ It captures all that diversity requires, in those five words.

My motto- and my wife’s, is to treat each victim, customer or colleague as we would wish to be treated.

And if you really want to understand the meaning of the word – watch ‘Planet Earth 2’ on the BBC- it’s great!