The famous
essayist Nora Ephron once wrote a piece in which she denounced her neck. She
said simply that she did not like her neck. It was scrawny and too long and had
to be hidden with scarves and turtleneck sweaters. That’s how I feel about
hair. I don’t like my hair and I never have. It’s fine, soft, and thin and
getting thinner. It never was a color I liked—and gray did not improve over the
former brown. It never grew out into any shape or style that was appealing. It
grew long but not curly. It grew longer still but never full. It just sort of hung
there.
The standard
for beautiful hair, for me, is Danielle Grant, the woman who does the weather
on Channel 9. I watch the weather just to watch her hair. Her rich brown tresses
hang long over her shoulders in a lustrous waterfall of hair. Her hair shines
with a deep luster. I don’t care if it rains or snows or turns sunny, her hair
is a beauty to behold.
Hair has many
functions, none of them really all that important. It can be a thing of natural
beauty, a fashion statement, a political statement, a symbol and, of course, it
was even a musical. In the 1960s, we let our hair grow long and shaggy to show
our disdain for an oppressive establishment and our attachment to a new culture
of freedom that did not include barbershops. We let our “freak flag” fly, as
one song put it.
In the 1970s,
we returned to those few barbershops that survived the ‘60s, and got it cut
short—gay short—because we didn’t want to be seen as some kind of hippie longhair
redneck. Hair styles came full circle, I guess. What was once a protest of the
establishment, became the establishment. Long hair meant you were a right wing
crazy conservative. Short hair was the rebellion.
Of course, we
didn’t just go to barbershops. We went to stylists and had our hair styled. And
paid a lot more for that styling. When I was first coming out I even had my
hair permed once. I wanted curls and decided to torture my hair into curls even
if I had to wear a toxic waste dump on my head. It didn’t work. I got curls,
alright, but I looked like I had a nice dust mop on top of my head. I looked
like Woody Allen on a bad day. I realized that my hair just was not made for
fashion.
Now I just get
it mowed now and then, about once a month. It’s like the lawn. Doesn’t really
do anything or contribute anything but looks better if it’s kept under control.
The problem is that there is too much of it where I don’t need it, like ears
and nose, and not enough where I do want it. I go to the cheapest barber I know
and for $10 get whatever excess is there clipped to a reasonable shortness. I
like my hair best when I don’t have to think about it.
It would be
nice to keep up with fashion, but I’ve given up. I would love to die it blue or
purple, colors I really like in other people’s hair. But on me, it would just
look silly. Beyond the basic requirement of workable hair, I don’t have that
fashion persona to pull it off. You know how some people can walk down a street
like they’re walking across a stage. I’m just trying to get a bus home before
somebody stops and says, “God, what did you do to your hair?”
© 15 Jan
2015
About the Author
Nicholas grew up in Cleveland,
then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from
work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga,
writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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