Long, Beautiful…Where?

In the notes I found recently, one of the lines says, “History of My Hair.” Since the hair on top of my head is mostly gone, perhaps “Eulogy of My Hair” might be more accurate.

When I was a kid, my hair rarely got very long, and my mother favored a crew cut. Looking in a mirror, with my Coke-bottle glasses, I thought I looked retarded. (Yes, that’s the word we used back then.) I hated my appearance.

I got to grow my hair longer in high school, because it was the 1970s. I pushed the front over and had this ridiculous little swoop for awhile. That is, until it began to recede—a phenomenon that became apparent when I was 19.

First it was too short, now it was vanishing—what’s next? (Flash forward to now and the answer is, “Hair growing everywhere you don’t need it.”) I mentally fought with my follicles, wishing my hair back. That was fruitless, and when I saw a photo of my maternal grandfather, I made peace with my hair loss, around the age of 25.

In the 80s, my late wife thought I should try to look cool for Berkeley and grow a ponytail, which I did. That did give me some theatrical cachet, though bald with ponytail does not always prove to be a good look. I finally had it chopped off for my last job interview in 2005, and haven’t really missed it.

Now I get it cut more often than I used to; it does get a bit flyaway and unmanageable at times, and I pair it with a beard trim, since my beard hairs seem to want to aim in very direction, like a random accident in a fireworks factory. In answer to the question, “What about a toupee?” I say, that’s not me. Just give me a Kangol cap and I’m fine.

But in my mind I still have a full head of hair.