Instead of spending today in the garden, I will be spending today at the mall, buying Paul shorts, track spikes, and [gasp] a haircut. As I far as I know, he is currently the only long-haired boy at his high school; and because his long hair is dense and curly and bouncy in a Robert Plant-like way, it is hard to overlook. On Monday, his vanished locks will be the talk of the school, no question.
I dislike the mall, but at least Bangor's is podunk and low-key. Last time I was there, the center walkway was filled with local stockcar racers and their cars--a close-up-and-personal look at painted-over Bondo, not-quite-matching spoilers, peculiar advertising, and lawn chairs. This kind of thing improves a visit to the mall, and I believe that most of the retired husbands (the ones who ordinarily spend their mall-purgatory sitting on benches or teetering on the edges of frozen massage chairs, where they chew Double-Mint gum and wait gloomily for their wives to finish up at Sears) would agree with me.