Three true “hair”-raising stories to start.
I think it was around about Christmas 1991. My brother and sister-in-law gave me a hairbrush as a gift.
Only it wasn’t your typical hairbrush. It had no bristles, just a felt pad. Written in black magic marker – crafted by the finest of rednecks I would venture to guess – were the words: “Hair brush for bald people.”
Ha. Ha. Very funny.
The next year they gave me a coffee mug that read: “All I want for Christmas is a good hair day.”
Oh what a wonderful Christmas tradition. (Note: I am not without blame. My mother-in-law said she would never have anything “cow” – figurines, et cetera – in her kitchen. Since that day, every Christmas, birthday ... pretty much any excuse ... I buy her a cow.)
Anyway, fast-forward to the present. The other day I was out in the backyard scooping up doggie due (as in: I have to do it “due” to the fact nobody else will) when my 9-year-old daughter came up and asked: “Dad would you put elephant poop on your head?”
“What?! No!”
“Would you put elephant poop on your head if you knew it would grow hair?” ...
Why do people persist? Why do they think it’s so all-fired important to me to have a full head of hair? For as long as I can remember people have used hair as a weapon against me. They think it gives them some sort of leverage.
A good Air Force friend I was stationed with in the United Kingdom used to like to refer to the front portion of my hair as my “tuft” whenever he wanted the edge (i.e. whenever women were around). As in: “Don, your ‘tuft’ needs combing.” As if you can actually comb a tuft. (And that was, oh back around 1986. Now days my tuft is more a “tough” luck.)
Those same aforementioned relatives – all of the relatives on my wife’s side to be exact (oh yes, I’ve suspected a plot for a long, long time) – would have the same overly-dramatic reaction every single time we would come home from overseas for the holidays (we spent almost 10 years there and came home every year).
“Oh Pam it’s so nice to see you again.” Hugs.
“Don ... OH MY GOD! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR!” Laughs ... no hugs. Every single time. I got/get it from coworkers – more so after today I’ll bet. I get it from so- called friends and on an on and on, time and time again.
When will they learn? It doesn’t bother me. Not one bit ...
Aw who am I kidding? They know. Everybody knows. It’s as clear as Rogaine (which didn’t work for me by the way). I WANT HAIR! REAL HAIR! Not just a few strands still thinking it’s the Alamo.
I want to be like Bo Derek in the seemingly ancient movie 10. I want to run in slow motion across the field of McConnell-Talbert stadium to interview Conrad Nix as my locks swing from side to side (Can you see it?) and thousands of fans gawk (at me and my bikini I would suppose).
I want to interview Gov. Sonny Perdue and know all the while he can’t keep his mind on the issues because of my beautiful long strands. (I’ll probably flick it back over my shoulder a time or two just to make it worse.)
I don’t want Prince-Albert-in-the-can hair as I’ve noted on some of today’s high school students – long but combed in a way that makes it sort of look like they have “mushroom” hair - but I’d take David Porter hair any day.
David Porter was my Northside High School buddy. He had hair like an angel, long blonde, flowing halfway down his back. His favorite thing to do was hang out in front of stores – grocery, convenience, any in the genre would do – just because he knew young women couldn’t resist. No kidding. Women, typically in their 30s from a “teen’s” memory (which means they could have been in their 60s or worse as the hormones were raging wild by then), would stop on a dime just so they could comment.
And speaking of my growing up, my dad insisted I have short hair. Had I only known it would all-too-soon be gone, I would have pitched a fit when he took me to the barber.
And, oh by the way, I’ve finally figured out something about that. I remember every time we – funny how dear old dad insisted on taking me although it was only 100 yards from our house – went, the barber would ask what type of haircut I wanted.
“Oh, just take about a quarter inch off the length, trim the bangs (See! I had bangs, not ‘tufts’!) just away from my eyes and taper block the back.”
Yet every result was the same ... “bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” with no trim setting changes, no switch to scissors and no discretion, regard or any acknowledgement he’d actually picked up a ruler the whole of his life. Dad was lying! He did not have something in his eye.
And speaking of children, my oldest son, the one living with us “temporarily” has about as big/full a head of hair as I’ve ever seen. Where’s the justice in that? Didn’t I have to put up with raising him? And now he still gets to flaunt this in front of me.
It’s black and stretches about six inches past his shoulders. One of these days if he’s not careful he’s going to wake up bald and I’ll be walking around with a wig.
“Sorry son. I don’t know what happened. I put this together out of hair I pulled out of the drain. It’s a combination of yours, your mom’s and sister’s. What a clog. Pity about yours, though.”
Alas. Hair.
I no longer want to be a test case for skin cancer. I covered three outdoor events this past Wednesday. All told: About seven hours in the sun. It was/is not pretty.
I live near the base. I’m pretty sure an F-15 pilot marked me in his sights as the perfect bulls eye.
And please don’t give me that scientific mumbo-jumbo about bald people having stronger sex drives. Even though it’s true (oprah.com), that only comforts the single.
“Hey honey. Did you know bald men have more testosterone?” “Good. Maybe you can find the energy to fix that cabinet drawer.” Hair. Alas.
I suppose I could just cut to the chase, shave it all off despite the aforementioned extra risk of sunburn, but quite frankly I’m not that brave. I have no earthly idea what sort of hills and valleys, craters, et cetera might be up there. I once knocked myself senseless (yes, still am) where our stairs meet the attic. I might still have a big crease/scar up there. If I did, my luck I would have a smily face up there or it would be in the shape of one lone curl making me look like Charlie Brown.
Simply put: Not all can have a cool bald head like Perry Middle School athletics director Randy Moss.
No, I must find another way.
Hmm ... Other than hay, I wonder what else is in elephant poop, anyway ... And then what to do about the gray? Hey, horses typically have a nice shiny coat ... I wonder what’s in their ...
