Seize the Day Read Online Free PDF Page A

the body. Maybe the natural option can be more effective and not as invasive.”
    We exchanged pleasantries for a few more minutes before I rose from my seat. Pastor Henson moved from behind his desk, came over and hugged me.
    â€œYou’re a strong man and you’ve done the right thing by praying to God and placing your faith in Him,” he said. “I’m here at any time to help in any way. Here—these are my home and cell phone numbers. Use them at any time. Any time. God be with you, Brother Calvin. God be with you.”
    I left there feeling like I had nourished my soul, if not extended my life. I thought about my friend Kevin, and something led me to the barbershop.
    As I lived the life I wanted, I also wanted and needed to do some of the things Kevin wrote that he never got to do. First thing was to get a haircut. Excuse me: a shaved head.
    I hadn’t even thought about what I’d look like bald. When you know you’re going to die, appearances hardly mattered much anymore. Instinctively, I shaved and ironed my clothes and made sure I looked my best. But it was pure force of habit. I didn’t have a woman—got rid of one about six weeks before the diagnosis because she brought drama every other day. And what good was it now to meet anyone? My desire for intimacy was close to zero, which saddened me because I had been quite amorous since I was a teenager. And who would want to get involved with a dying man anyway?
    So cutting off all my hair didn’t matter to me as much as it did honoring my friend. I went to my barber, Kevo, over at Iverson Mall and he looked at me as if I asked him for money when I told him, “Cut it all off. Shave it.”
    I didn’t have that much, but what I had was distinguishable and was a part of my appearance that helped shaped my physical image that people saw when they looked at me.
    â€œWhat?” Kevo asked. “You mean lower than usual?”
    â€œI’m going for something new. All of it. A bald head worked for Kojak, Jordan, Ving Rhames and just about anyone else. Maybe it will work for me.”
    â€œSo you’re serious? OK, if you say so. But this is cool. Your hairline was starting to run away from you, anyway. Plus, it’ll take some years off your look.”
    I laughed with him, but he had no idea that I didn’t have years left. I learned to laugh to fend off crying, which was interesting because before the “news,” the only time I recalled crying was at the news of my mother’s death from an aneurysm more than a decade earlier. I found crying episodes to be signs of weakness and pitiful, especially from a man. Tears were for women.
    When I told my father my position on that, he held himself back from smacking me. “Son, don’t be stupid. What are you, a caveman? You cry if you have a heart. It has nothing to do with strength or being a man. It has everything to do with having compassion, having emotions, having a heart.”
    I heard him, but I didn’t really understand at the time. I got it later, though. The number of people who burst into tears at just the mere notion that I had cancer showed me they had compassion for me, compassion for life. And, when I was alone, I cried. Every day. I cried because I had compassion for myself. I cried because I was scared. I cried because it was OK for men to cry.
    I didn’t tell Kevo, my barber, what was going on with me. He was so emotional about the Redskins or President Obama, I could just see him making a big scene out of it right there in the shop. So I kept it to myself, thinking I’d tell him at some point.
    Meanwhile, he took his time cutting off my hair, as if he were savoring the moment, cutting me down in layers before getting to my scalp. Then he ran the clippers from front-to-back, slicing as low as he could get. Finally, he covered my head with shaving cream, adjusted the chair so I was reclined and, with a razor,