When I was a baby my hair stood straight up on end. My
mother enjoys this story, and lovingly tells about using Bryll Cream in an
effort to tame my whispy locks. It
didn’t work though, because my hair refused to lie down. I’ve seen the
pictures, and I was adorable!
Eventually my hair thickened into a rich, thick, glossy brown
mane and, and became (next to my excellent ankles), one of my best features. Then of course, I shaved it off, became
a baldy, and spent the winter with stubbles and a wig. Now, I’m happy to report
that I have full coverage. It came in quite gray, but is now a rich (bottle)
not-so-natural chestnut.
It is however, quite whispy. After all, it is baby hair. And
like the baby hair of my youth, it stands straight up on my head. No matter
what I do, and no matter how hard I try, my hairs have no interest in
reclining. They stand up straight up as though they’d been yelled at, and I
look like Don King, or perhaps a baby ostrich.
‘Hey Alfalfa.’ said Jim, as he walked by me over the
weekend. I nodded glumly, and sat
patiently as he patted down my hair, then watched it jump back to attention. He
did it a couple of times, then wandered away whistling merrily, buoyed by all
the fun he’d just had.
On Saturday night we went to a party and I knew I couldn’t
go out wearing my hat. Firstly it’s filthy, and secondly it’s too tight. I
think my head is getting fat, and I’m tired of having hat marks on my forehead
at the end of the day. So I took great pains with my hair. I got the blow dryer
out of hibernation and fired it up. Because my hair is so fine, it was dry in
less then 4 seconds, and ready to party. It tried patting it dry – but to no
avail. So I drove to the drugstore, loaded up on few styling gel, and poured it
on my hairs.
With half a pound of gel, it did indeed stay down, but I
looked like a 60’s mobster. Jim suggested it would be more stylish if I brushed
my bangs down in front, rather than try to hide them. I had to break it to him
that I I don’t actually have any bangs, as the hair directly above my forehead is still on vacation.
Later that night I was sitting on my bar stool with a tumbler
of wine while an acquaintance stared at my head. I have a
pretty good-sized cranium, and without much hair, I feel like a giant light
bulb ‘Your hair is short,’ she said. There was a small silence while I sipped
my drink and she continued the examination, searching for the positive. Finally
she brightened, ‘Hey, you have a dimple!’
I took out my old baby picture, and sure enough, there it
was. God, I was adorable. And with my middle-aged eyesight, the baby in the
picture didn’t look much different than the lady in the mirror. Giant head,
horizontal hair, chubby arms, and the dimple. However the baby in the mirror didn’t
look so self-conscious. And why should she? She was oblivious to hats and blow-dryers, and had yet to be slathered with Bryll Cream. Baby Janet didn't think about the way she looked at
all, and cared about what was in front of her, rather than ostrich hairs on top.
So I’m trying to take a page from my own book and enjoy what’s
ahead - without waiting for my feathers.
