Men my age usually start looking at their hairlines and wonder when the day will come when they see it slowly begin to recede into the sunset. It’s the beginning of the age of Rogaine, of comb-overs, of hoping you’ll look half as good as Captain Picard did with that little ring of hair around your scalp. Me, I’ve got the opposite problem. My hair ain’t going anywhere, thanks to my mother’s side of the family. And to b e honest, I’m more than a little sick of it.
There was a time not too long ago when I had my hair long. Not follow the Grateful Dead around the country long, but definitely 1977 Luke Skywalker long. And I was pretty much digging it. I figured it was time to enter my eccentric middle-age phase, with the beard and the long hair and the geek leanings. I’d say, “I can’t afford a sports car, so my hair is my mid-life crisis.” And it while it wasn’t curly and didn’t do all that much, it did manage to get this really cool wave right around the ears that I rather fancied. I even contemplated the eventual growing of — gasp — a ponytail. Not a long one, but having just enough to tie up and back. I was ready for Woodstock.
Of course, my mane was not without its problems. I love wearing hats, but a thick head of hair doesn’t exactly play nice with a ball cap. If I didn’t put any gel in it, I was constantly brushing it back out of my face. I could wet it down and it would behave itself for a bit, but before long, I was back swatting at unruly strands. But if I wanted it to do anything, I had to put so much gel in it I would look like I was wearing a helmet for the better part of the morning. And blow drying it usually made me look like Beetlejuice, which was not quite the look I wanted to cultivate at my job. So I finally gave up the dream and got it cut. Only to immediately regret it and start growing it out again.
Which leads up to today. My hair looked perfect around mid-morning, a nightmare after lunch, somewhat better with some water and some frantic combing, and downright sad come quitting time. Enough. Back to Great Clips, back to a more reasonable length.
If I could get away with it, I’d just get rid of it all together. The problem with that is bald me looks like a cross between a 1960s Bond villain and the kind of guy Chris Hansen talks to in kitchens. And I actually did shave my head once, and you know what? It’s just as much damn work keeping a bald head looking good as it is taking care of a head of hair. Stubble looks kind of sexy on your jaw line. Not so much on the top of your head. And I’m not going to repeat the Nair story, but let’s just say you should be shaving your head for a good long while before attempting to use it.
So here I am, stuck between forms of follicular rebellion. Can’t take it too long, can’t make it too short. I’ve got to have just a regular ol’ haircut. I guess I should be glad it’s not going anywhere, and that the grey that’s in it is more distinguished than derelict. But one of these days, I’m going to suck it up and go total Fabio. I’m just going to need a to of patience. And even more gel.