By Ralph Scoville

It started like any other Saturday. You know, get up, run a quick 5 miles, sip some coffee and read the newspaper, eat my breakfast, then a quick double shot of Jameson to start my day.

OK, you caught me. I MAY have exaggerated a few things. No, I did not run 5 miles to start my day and NO, I did not have a double shot of Jameson. That’s ridiculous, it was only 1 shot… and bourbon, not Irish whiskey.

I have not had my hair trimmed since March of last year. (I must pause to give a shout-out to my regular stylist — Lauren Mulligan of Lucia C. Salon. Not giving her any money in a looooong time, the least I can do is give her some love.) On a Zoom meeting last Monday, several friends compared my mop to Brian May. Well, he may play the electric guitar (an American invention) better than me, but I submit I play rugby (an English invention from William Webb Stumpf) better than he, so it’s a wash.

My wife and daughter even threatened me. Not to cut my hair, no, a fate much worse than that. They threatened to buy PRODUCT and work it into my hair whilst I was napping (I mean watching an NRL replay) on the couch. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure using product would violate the sacred code of the Fat Five. For those of you that are not aware, we are a VERY exclusive group. Only the best looking, the most intelligent and most athletic are permitted into this group. Having the dingleberries of your prop sticking to your forelock is a badge of honor for a 2nd Row. Having hair that is silky smooth and smells like lilacs or lavender? Er, not so much.

Around the same time that I was a week away from having my head shaved for charity at the Dover Moose Lodge 541, COVID19 grabbed NJ by the shorthairs and did not want to let go. Social distancing protocols were established. My wife’s dream of seeing my ears again was shot to hell.

Watching the Feury women work tirelessly in treating the victims of this virus, the Morris Rugby Men (i.e. Masters-in-Training) came up with a way to honor KJ and Tess and all their hard-working compatriots, yet restore some ease in future grooming habits.

A Go-Fund-Me campaign was created. A goal of $5000 was established to be raised in one week. The more money that was raised, the more bald ruggers could be created. ChaCha heard of this effort and immediately donated. I had escaped the virus thus far (I think), but I was not to escape Mr. Snippy.

Like a condemned man set to build his own gallow’s pole, I trudged to the garage, got an empty 55 gallon drum and set up my iPhone speakers. I kicked off the festivities with Supper’s Ready by Genesis and ChaCha began to snip. Slowly at first, but soon flocks of hair were flying about the garage. Her hands quickly grew tired, so she needed to call in some reinforcements.

Katie popped over. Having reached “a new Jerusalem”, I was free to put on another track. I chose the live version of Green Grass ‘n’ High Tides and Katie dove in. She swam the 1000M for Morris Knolls back in HS, but the endurance required for that event was minimal compared to the exertion she was expending now. We were almost done… Sooooo close, but she also was pooped.

Luckily, ChaCha appeared again. Reinvigorated by her potty break, her thirst slaked by Coors Lite and her nerves soothed by Parliament, she began the final cuts. But first, one more song. I choose something from Live at Filmore East, which ChaCha hates slightly more than Linkin Park, but way less than any Patty Scialfa vocals. She gamely gritted her teeth and cut. To think she was missing part of National Scrapbooking Day for this! The things we do for love!

As the sun was settling down over the Bay of Sunset Waters and the Fiskars shears worn down to the size of kindergarten safety scissors, the drum solos were done and Gregg belted out for the last time “TIED!! To a whippin’ post!”. The hard part was over.

Lastly, just a quick shave. I haven’t been buzzed in a number of years, so I got pretty excited when I heard about this opportunity. The unboxing of the razor quickly dashed those expectations. The age of the box made me fearful that ChaCha had grabbed the same razor that we used to shave the winter hair off the cows when I was growing up. But as I did not see any cowlicks or meadow muffinettes, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was not worried about catching COVID19 from the razor, although COVID1 remained a distinct possibility.

In a matter of moments, it was done. Maybe I was hallucinating, but I swear a Spaceman appeared briefly. Back to reality, my Afro was gone and for the immediate future, I would need to stay away from billiard tables.

4 good things would come of this:

1. ChaCha could see my ears again.

2. Clayton would have plenty of filling for his new pillow.

3. My hair was never exposed to product.

4. Most importantly, I did my part to help raise money for the terrific work done by the Atlantic Health System and other providers across the country. The goal was $5000, but as I go to press, we had already far exceeded that. A well-deserved thank you for both our health care providers and to those that donated.

Soon the weather will be perfect for Rugby and we will actually be able to play, so in the immortal words of Don Pardo: See you next time…….. If there is a next time.

Posted in Masters