The Ninth Child Syndrome

The Clash's album Combat Rock  came out in 1982, and it was one of the first albums I bought with my own money. I bought it early enough that it still had the 2000 Flushes ad in "Inoculated City" before those flush-folk figured it out and threw a hissy fit, demanding that it be removed. That's always been a singular point of pride for me.  1982 should have been peak awkwardness for me - 12 years old, daily shifts from pre- to post-pubescent, still reeling from the trauma of losing my dad, and the general horror that is middle school. MTV became hugely important to me, and the uncontrolled nature of it had an astonishing ability to affect my mood. Bowie's video for "Heroes" would pop up and I'd be overcome with a great rush of feeling that I didn't quite understand. It was my first taste of FOMO - fearful to turn the TV off because something really good might be on next, and I couldn't bear the thought of missing an all-too-rare showing of ...

 I save my hate for Hitler, but getting my hair cut is a close second. Not the actual cutting process - that doesn't bother me at all, and I like to remember how my old high school chum Chris said he loved the feeling of getting his hair cut more than just about anything else - but I (almost) hate the required small talk. The chair chatter. The snip-n'-gossip. That bland, meaningless conversation fills me with this freakish performance anxiety, like I have to be a good customer, I have to be easy, I have to be a delight. Why is it that salon names are so often cheesy puns? It's because hair puns are irresistible: I have shear fear. (There's also a little childhood trauma connection, if you're into that sort of thing. When I was little sometimes when my four brothers and I needed haircuts, Mom would bundle us up in the station wagon and take us to the barber shop. And the barber was an older dude who was apparently so delighted to have a little girl in his chair that...