Random Semicoherent Thoughts – Volume 41

I got my haircut today. Once upon a time this would have cost me $6. Today it cost me $50. Yes, inflation explains some of that, but there are other reasons. unlike some of my previous jobs, my current one allows me to have facial hair. As a result, I started growing my beard out this past Thanksgiving. It turns out that growing a beard is more complicated than I thought… and I lack the necessary skill set to do so with acceptable results. The barber gets part of my paycheck to do so and for once, I can afford it.

I tried to grow a mullet once. While a senior in high school in 1989, I decided that a mullet would fit the heavy-metal stage I found myself in. My step-mother, who did my hair at my time, complied with my request and let it grow long in the back. What I didn’t understand is that the wiry, kinky hair that my parents blessed me with isn’t suitable for that kind of haircut. Instead of growing down, it grew straight back into a wedge looking thing. I have one picture from high school that shows a curl of hair sticking out sideways from the back of my head. It wasn’t the least bit pretty – business in the front, ridiculous in the back.

I’m nowhere near a mullet these days. ‘No guard all over’ are the instructions I give the barber these days. The hair on my face is currently longer than the hair on top of my head. It’s one sure way to get the gray out.

I did not get my kinky hair from my father -his was decidedly straight. I also did not inherit my father’s male pattern baldness, something he tried to hide with a terrible comb-over. Fortunately for all of us, my stepmother took action to save us all. She and my father visited the same hairstylist. When my father fell asleep in the chair – as he almost always did when he got a haircut – my stepmother signaled to the hairstylist to cut it off. When he awoke, the deed was done. Sneaky? Yes. Necessary? Also yes.

My mother lost most of her hair when she had cancer. I remember her in wigs, bandannas, and other head coverings. The one image of her natural hair is from the moment she first discovered it was growing back after her first round of chemotherapy was done. Her hair was kinky and wiry and speckled with gray and nothing like what she had before cancer. I can still remember the distraught look on her face from that moment. Unfortunately, it’s one of my most memorable images of her.

Earlier this year, I went to the BMV to renew my license. While filling out the application, the clerk asked me what color my hair was. I answered that it used to be brown, but that I also didn’t know any more. She took one look at me, said it was still brown and wrote it down. Between that and passing the vision test without glasses, I’m calling that a good day at the BMV.