When Government Shows a Small, Ugly Face

My barber explained the new barber's license, which blocked part of the mirror we stare at as she cuts my hair. It has a black frame and a color passport photo of her and it is eight by eleven inches.

"Oh," I said, "You must have upped your game now--that license is much more imposing than I remember."

"Yes," she said. "I'm almost a hair stylist now with that great license. For thirty years my license was three by six inches, and I hung it over on that wall, near the window, but now I have to print it out on my computer and it has to be 8x11inches or it's a $200 fine and that other license..."--she pointed to the equally obstructive eight by eleven, black framed behemoth next to her new license--"That one is my license to operate a shop."  She continued, voice rising, "And now Joyce has to have her license up there and she has to display her license to rent a chair, right next to it. So you can hardly see your haircut as I'm cutting it, with all the licenses, and they won't let you put it on the other wall. Has to be right in front of you. And, oh, the first aide kit cannot be in the bathroom and the eyewash kit--why I need that I'll never know--has to be right next to it on that wall."

Steam was jetting out of her ears now, at least figuratively.

"The state," she continued, "Comes in here and just makes everyone miserable. And I don't even shave necks. Never use a razor. I could see if I might draw blood or something, but I use scissors and electric cutters. What the fuck?"

It made me think of going to the state Motor Vehicle Department to get my new license, which is now controlled by  federal regulations because you can use it to get on an airplane for interstate travel. You need your social security card for that one. And, boy, did I feel smug and proud to have found my social security card, which I got age 14, and carried with me through many moves up and down the East Coast, and never lost it. 

When I presented it to the clerk she took one look at it and shook her head. "Can't use that one," she said.

"Why not?"

"You laminated it."

"That card is 50 years old. It's paper. If I hadn't laminated it, it would be dust by now."

"I don't make the rules."

"Where does it say it can't be laminated?"

"It's on the form we sent you."

Sure enough, it was there, buried in print a font so small you could just make it out with a strong magnifying glass. That was the rule made by some nameless bureaucrat in the federal government, presumably, and that bureaucrat had never seen my Social Security card, issued in 1961, which says, very clearly, along the bottom in big font, "For Social Security and tax purposes. Not for identification." But, of course, I will not get to plead my case before that bureaucrat or any other. The government does what the government wants to do.

Ultimately, by some miracle, I got a new Social Security card mailed to me--can't recall what documents I had to provide for that and I got my spiffy special driver's license which allows me to fly on commercial airplanes.

But really, this is government people can hate.

Turns out, there was an actual reason the card could not be laminated: Actual, bone fide, government issued Social Security cards have a pebbled surface to them, very hard to counterfeit, and if you run your finger over them, you can feel it, but if you laminate, you cannot.

So, there was an actual reason for that one.

But why do barbers' licenses have to be eight by eleven blocking your view of your haircut?

"These people," my barber said. "They have these shitty jobs, but boy are they going to let you know who is in charge. And if I don't pass their inspection, I'm out of business. Who does that help?"

And we are talking about a small state--less than 1.4 million people--New Hampshire. 

I did not want to ask my barber if she voted for Donald Trump, but I can get the aggravation with government and petty martinets.