A Calling

I've always been envious of people who had a calling, those people who knew from almost day one they wanted to be an artist, an engineer, or post man. For a while I thought I wanted to be like the Dad in Sabrina, you know the chauffeur who did that so he could read as much as he wanted. Somewhere along the way I realized that part of my definition of meaning of life is work. I believe, to truly be alive - to experience life I must work (even though I'm one of the laziest mofos you will ever meet). Life of luxury, of lounging around with a book while doing meaningless tasks to earn a living wasn't for me.

Take my hairdresser, Aldo. He is in his mid sixties, he is Sicilian, he is illiterate, he is an ex-druggie, and his passion is making art out of cutting hair. Seriously. He is a genius with scissors and comb, the man can give a bald dude a fantastic haircut.

He takes his craft very seriously; even though he can't read he goes every weekend to Harvard Square to buy the latest European magazine to stay on top of the hottest trends, he poo-poos the American trained stylists, letting me know he studied the craft in England, he has done hair competitions in NYC and in LA, and the only reason why he doesn't charge a arm and a leg is that he is a nightmare to work with - it seems being a ex-druggie and having larger than life personality (the kind who will break out into a Diana Ross song without any warning) does not sit well with high end clients.

When he begins the haircut all the drama and labels fall away from him - he is not my crazy hairdresser with a colorful background, instead he is stepping up to his calling. There is incredible beauty in that - a person following their passion - allowing all the training, hard work, and expertise culminate - it's almost divine. I know the description sounds melodramatic, but I really do believe that there is some kind of divinity in doing what you love, what you are good at, and what makes you feel alive.

I want that.