Haircut · Vinylwav - Record Collecting

Haircut

I just got my haircut. The girl cutting my hair was joking and laughing with her coworker when along came Joseph, changing her whole mood. She asked how my day was going and if I wanted my usual—"a 4 on top, 1 on the sides."

"Yup."

Like I do with most people who ask what I’ve been up to, I answered, "Too much shit. Super busy. Everything." As if I don’t pile all this stuff onto my own plate like it’s Thanksgiving every day—gluttonous behavior.

As I ran down the list, somewhat proud of my overwhelming portions, I mentioned this blog.

She said, "That's cool. So it’s about records?"

"Yeah," I replied. "It’s a place where I can leave my wife and kids some context about these records I’ve been collecting. It’ll act as some sort of map to the ones I cherish the most, you know, for when I’m gone."

And of course, I didn’t bat an eye, because any of us record collectors have the same concern—our collections will never mean as much to others as they do to us. What will become of my life’s pursuit?

As she continued cutting, I asked her a question—small talk—but she stopped me.

"I’m sorry, I’m still processing what you told me about your blog, and I’m trying to hold back tears. Maybe I’m just emotional from my IUD (birth control)."

When I think about my mortality, about being a father and a husband, I can’t say I’ve been what I’d consider a "great dad." I’ve chosen to have a deeply personal relationship with my music and my collection. I’ve introduced my family to it, and sometimes, they’ve embraced it. Other times, they’ve complained that it’s in the way, that it takes up too much of my attention. And even with all those interactions, sometimes my music still falls on deaf ears. And that’s okay.

When my dad passed, he was in a drugged-up state, dreaming before he let go. He heard my voice and the voices of others around him. I spoke to him, and his hands moved, his eyes shifting behind closed lids. There was a moment when we realized he was close, and the one thing we could all agree on was that music was a connector.

As we took turns playing songs to guide us through the moment, I played one that I had never heard the same way again after that night: "The Beatles – Let It Be."

My dad loved The Beatles, as many of us do. As my stepmom, uncle, aunt, sister, and brother-in-law sat around him, we listened, and Dad made his way.

I can never listen to Let It Be again.

I have let it be.

Many of the records on my shelves have outlasted both the original collectors and the artists who made them. I say all of this to make one thing clear—there are moments in my life when these songs have accompanied me, and if I can give my family a better understanding of my soul, it’s through my work and my collection.

And if you feel this way too, join me in making it known what needs to be known.

We are limited.

—Joseph

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