The Urban Cowboy
The Urban Cowboy
Your life’s voyage can be summarized by how many friends you have. These friendships can happen anywhere, at any time. This tale is about such an encounter. There I was, in a horse pasture building hi-tensile fence for our “cowgirl up” friend Barb, when I noticed from far away, an object moving towards me. She had mentioned that her urban cowboy boyfriend might be out to lend a hand. I was thinking initially, the logical mode of transportation out here would have been equine in nature, but not for this rebel. As he drew closer, one might have rolled an eye or two. Here was a John Wayne like figure decked out in a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, a full length drover, leather gloves and mirror shades riding of all things, a lean, mean John Deere green-- lawn mower! If it weren’t for the cold, hop infused beverages in one hand and an Eswing in the other, I might have thought a little differently. As he pounded the first staple, gulped down the first bottle, while reciting a myriad of jokes, I could tell this would be a colorful friendship between the farmer and the connoisseur of hair care products.
As dusk settled over the new fence, I find out that my new friend, Ziggy, short for Zegarelli, is a surgeon with a pair of sheers. “Boy, I could use a new Barber,” I cackled.
“I’m not a Barber,” he wailed. “Well then, I need a good hair cutter,” I sheepishly replied. “I’m not a cutter either! You will address me as a hair stylist,” he said in resounding fashion. Hey, I like this, a guy with some darn passion and zeal. He critiqued my 1980’s hair-style and 45 year old mustache and practically dared me to come into the big city to his salon to get the modern, professional look. On my way home from this exchange, I looked in my rearview mirror to reveal, he was absolutely right, I was a freak of nature.
I figured it was only fair to meet his challenge, so I ventured into the concrete jungle. But I didn’t come empty-handed either, I planned to reciprocate his bantering with an armful of farm fresh eggs and meat. I thrust open the door to announce there is a farmer in the house and was immediately struck by being in some sort of family museum. Old elixir bottles, golfing memorabilia, and ancestor’s pictures all adorned the walls of this hair temple. This is not at all what I had pictured.
Not missing a beat, he announced to the clients waiting, “we got a real farmer in our midst”, while telling some barn boot/animal joke and accosted me to take off the hat, get in the chair and sit up straight. Oh, this isn’t going to be just a haircut, this was going to be an experience!
He proceeded snipping and clipping until I violated the cardinal sin of salon etiquette by forgetting to turn off my cell phone during the critical, around the ear phase. He went into an interesting choice of expletives, describing someone losing some flesh the last time that happened. Once again I was mocked by jokes for the benefit of the customers, which seemed to thoroughly enjoy listening to this hazing ritual of a newbie. By the time he got done with the hot lather shave of my jungle, neck fuzz and straightening of my under-nose caterpillar, I realized, looking at the unforgiving “gi-normous” mirror that this guy was a true craftsman. He had just transformed an ugly duckling into a swan.
No small feat! I was looking good and feeling good. However, it was time for him to come to my place of business to see how a grass craftsman turns sunlight into beef.
He and Barb landed on the green carpet sporting their signature Harley Davidsons’ and appropriate biker gear. With the grill warming up, I suggested we go move the steers to a fresh paddock. Mr. Fashion Statement chimed in about how he could move those doggies better than yours truly. “OK, I said, get in the truck, sit up straight and hang on!”
So the scene is set, 100 steers on two acres separated from the next lush, juicy, succulent subdivision by one piece of poly-wire housed on a cord reel. “Alright cowboy, take this reel and wind up the wire as you walk along and the steers will funnel right in behind you to the next paddock”, I explained. “Hey, my wife and daughters do this, so you should be able to handle it”, I bantered again. He was doing fine for the first 20 feet until those 1000 lb beasts started popping through the opening. “You might want to roll a little faster buddy”, I said jokingly. He panicked and started reeling too fast, which lead to the wire becoming tangled, which led him to just run with the bird’s nest in tow until all the cows had gotten to the piece of heaven. By this time Barb and I were rolling with uncontrollable laughter. “!!?*^+$#*, they were trying to kill me”, he said out of breath. “Still think this grass farmin’ is easy there sunshine? I asked. Come on, stop whining, it’s time to go down to the house and taste the sunshine my wife is cooking up,” I said.
As we enjoyed the tasty meat, paired with a nice bottle of Snowy Owl and fresh veggies from our garden, we agreed that farming with grass has the same quality as a great haircut, just different.
Our escapades together never cease to provide comic relief for any customer, be it from the country or the city. We now fully appreciate each other’s talents through the experiences we share. To tell you the truth, his skill of making me look professional compliments the grass business very well. When you feel good about yourself, you project a positive attitude towards your love of people and nature. Who knew a pair of scissors in an urban cowboy’s hands could accomplish so much. So the next time you visit the salon or a Barber’s chair, give a tip of local food as patronage. I think serving grass-finished beef with Paul Mitchell hair care products would help everyone feel beautiful. Published in the Lancaster Farmer 12/21/2008