The Bedside Manner
It’s a habit of my male friends to bemoan visits to the barber shop. They’re an effeminate bunch (my friends not the barbers) who know nothing about sports and find themselves awkwardly trying to fake some knowledge of “the match last night”. This usually ends in their unmasking and a sense of alienation from the rest of mankind. Some of them even try to study a little before a trim. This probably explains why so many of them favour floppy curls: longer hair means less frequent humiliation.
I am normally unsympathetic to their moans and mock them when they return from the barbers feeling emasculated and looking like lesbian monkeys but now that I am stationed deep in hurling country I find myself softening. In the evenings instead of drug names I look up the players’ names. But it’s never enough. Sports aficionados can be cruel.
My partner this week has found acceptance. He plays for his local team. But in him I see the identity crisis: impartial health care provider versus Cork football supporter. Can both exist in the same person before the host goes mad? The other day he told a lady from Waterford that there was a “Do Not Resuscitate” policy for people from that county. She went visibly pale as he shoved the needle in.
