It’s a bit early for the annual, let’s be nice to everybody, column, so I’ve decided to discuss hair this week. I hope you’ll understand.
Hair on heads is fine, but I don’t like getting haircuts. Don’t get this wrong. I adore the lovely women who handle that chore. They are witty, skillful and even on bad days, they have charm and panache. They aren’t the problem, it’s the hair. I have too much of it, or too little of it. I don’t know. If I had less, I could go the scalp shaving route. Instead I just have a stupid bald spot within a semi-mane that does nothing … sorta like the rest of me. The women with the razor and scissors can’t work much magic around something that isn’t there now can they? I have had the same haircut that defies logical description for 38 years with slight deviations, depending on the personality of the cutter. I simply don’t care, just cut it and get me outta there … although I really do love ya … it’s not you, it’s me dear hairstylist who doesn’t have to do any styling, since I don’t have much to work with.
Then there is hair you wish wouldn’t keep showing up … in the ears, nose, eyebrows for instance. Why do we have eyebrows? I have a friend who lost his eyebrows in a Second World War fire. He claims that was the one positive thing that came out of the ordeal that included 18 months in a PoW hospital. He never had to worry about trimming eyebrows again.
We spend countless hours trimming and cutting, not counting the hours spent in barber or hairstylist chairs. But without it … we’d look really funny.
I recall with great delight the one time I did go a long stretch without a proper haircut. I was living the dolce vita on a Caribbean Island and didn’t think it was necessary to tend to great grooming habits, so I let my hair grow longer. It eventually grew to near shoulder length. My mother came to visit me. I was at the airport to greet her. She walked right past me and my big grin. She didn’t recognize her son! Bleached blonde, long-haired hippy, surfer freak?
Hardly. I would have died on a surfboard. There was a clear signal I received from her once I re-identified myself to my mom. First stop was a hotel barber shop. Then we talked. She wanted to know who I was dating and did I have any money or was I making any money and why hadn’t I written? Sorry, no emails back in that day, thank goodness. Her priority list was a bit mangled.
I’ve been climbing into barber and hairstylist chairs since I was five years old and the results are similar. No additional colour. I went from blondish brown to brown to white/grey without chemical assistance. The styles have been easy to maintain … out of shower, wipe head twice with towel, eight swipes with comb. Hair is now dry, ready to roll out wardrobe.
I remember those who have cut the mop. First, there was Shorty Moore. I sat on a bench across the arms of his chair and he cut the early curls. Then Marcel and later Connie, who was cute and the first woman I allowed to cut my locks! Now I get a choice of a team who thankfully know what they’re doing, even if I don’t. I won’t name them, they’d be embarrassed. Let’s say they’re the miracle workers, and leave it at that.
