I am thankful that I have a gracious family. Recently I went to a well-known hair-cutting establishment to get a haircut. The hair on the top of my head had grown to the point that it was bothering me . . . I felt as if I was entering into a comb over stage and definitely did not like that I was perceiving my self-image as something resembling the Rudy Giuliani hair dye scandal or (God forbid) a Donald Trump whatever it is on his head scene. It just didn’t feel right . . . I felt top heavy. So . . . a haircut it was.
Maybe I should call it “shearing” . . . as in shearing a sheep. In a matter of minutes, the stylist or shearer had done her thing with the clippers and scissors. What once was there was gone. In fact, most of it was gone . . . I was mere millimeters from being completely bald shaven. My head looked like one of those kitchen sink brushes used to wash dishes. At least it looked that way when I finally got to see the result.
When it comes to haircuts. I am helpless. Helpless because once I take off my glasses I cannot see. I see shapes. I see light. But I cannot see the fine detail of what is taking place above my shoulders. I am blind and at the mercy of whoever is holding the clipper. And I sit there . . . motionless and listening to the whirling of the clipper’s blades mowing down my hair. Over and over. Whirl! Whirl! I trust the stylist . . . and then she proclaims she is done.
“How does it look?” she asks.
Being a nice guy who blind without his glasses, I proclaim, “It feels good.” As to how it looks . . . well, until I get my glasses on I have no clue. Putting my glasses on, and once again being a nice guy, I say it looks good even though I really did not look at it. I paid my bill. Thanked the stylist and gave her a healthy tip. Threw my hat on. And left. Actually, I hightailed it to the store next door, ran into the bathroom, yanked off my hat, looked in the mirror . . . and gasped in shock! Where had all my hair gone? Who was that nearly bald person looking back in the mirror at me?
Yeah, you got it . . . I was embarrassed. And, yes, I know the old saying about the difference between a “good haircut” and a “bad haircut” is two weeks. In that moment I didn’t want to show myself to anyone . . . thank goodness for hats . . . and gracious people. The family members all said that it looked fine. My wife said that she liked it. The grandkids didn’t say a word because they really didn’t care. One of the little ones, upon touching my stubbly head called me “Dad”. “Dad” is in the military and keeps his stubbly short. They were being “nice”. I imagined that whenever they left the room they were secretly snickering at shearing—I mean, haircut. But they were being nice.
Since my early twenties, haircuts have been an adventure. Apparently, I have the sort of hair that barbers and hairstylists either find a great challenge or a disaster waiting to happen. Whatever the case, I just know that no two haircuts I have received over the years are the same.
My hair has issues.
Since I was a child, I have been told that I have a “double crown”. I had to look that one up. That means that there are two points on my head in which the hair grows in a circular formation. This circular formation is called a “whorl”. I have two whorls that seem to want to take my hair in conflicting directions, thus making it difficult to cut. It is like two hurricanes or tornados bouncing off each other vying for control while neither gains it. This makes cutting my hair difficult.
I have had a receding hairline since my early twenties on top of the double crown. Over the years the hairs on my head have been secretly sneaking off to who knows where! Where there once was hair, there now is none. Over the years I have gained more forehead as the hair has retreated to parts unknown. Since it has been going on for so long, I am sort of used to it. The only problem is that there is a stubborn clump of hair on my forehead that refused to give it up when all the rest of the hair did. Instead, they have massed themselves as a little island in the middle of my forehead leaving a gap between them and the rest of the hair. A teenager in a youth group once told me . . . it looks like a fob, and I should let it grow out long and dye it purple. I never did, but it just won’t give up the ghost and hangs on for dear life. It is a dilemma for those who cut my hair as they attempt to match it up with the rest of the remaining hair.
I am also balding. It seems that the two “whorls” at the crown of head are losing participants, and the spots up there are getting bigger and balder all the time. Where the whorls once fought for supremacy, it is now a race to nothingness.
All of this makes it difficult to cut my hair. I have seen the barber and stylist cringe when they look at my head. It is a challenge. It is an adventure. I know it. I have known it for years. The only real solution, at least in my mind, is to buzz it all off. Cut it down to the stubble. But I have resisted. I guess there is still some vanity left in me, but I have resisted. I keep telling myself I ought to do it once I completely retire and I am not around people much. It will be less of a shock to them and to me.
Oh well . . . the stylist took that choice away with this recent haircut. She shaved it all off. Swoosh! What once was there was now gone. I guess she decided what she thought was best and went for it . . . or maybe, considering all the obstacles with my hair, she kept cutting and cutting thinking she could make something work. Then, suddenly, she realized that she had cut it all off! Since I couldn’t see what she was doing, what could I say? It felt good.
Several days since the scalping . . . I mean, haircut . . . I can honestly say that it really isn’t so bad. I have never been one to look at myself in the mirror much, so it is pretty much out of sight, out of mind. It feels good. No one runs off screaming when I enter a room. Children don’t point and laugh. My dogs still love me. My wife thinks it looks good and since she has to see it more than me, that is good to know. Besides . . . in two weeks it will move from being a “bad haircut” to being a “good haircut” . . . and I have a hat. Lots of hats. It is amazing what a hat can do for one’s self-image.
In the end . . . I might just have to keep my hair cut like this. It feels good . . . and good is good.
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