It seems like I fight a daily battle defending the length of my hair.
My hair, yes, it’s rather long and thick but not nearly as lengthy as it was in high school. Back then it was halfway down my back and I looked like a combination of Peter Frampton and any of the members of Hanson.
Do you remember Hanson? I don’t.
In the overall scheme of things I am a relatively hairless human being. I’m not talking hairless like a dolphin.
That would be creepy and disgusting, and I’m already creepy and disgusting enough as it is. But I can’t grow facial hair, I’m spared both back and chest hair and there are members of junior high track teams with more armpit hair than yours truly.
Though the hairs on my big toes are so pathetically long they rival shoelaces. I should either cut them or learn how to braid hair.
A psychologist would diagnose me with hair envy, and suggest that I make up for my sideburn shortcomings the only way I know how: by growing what hair I can — and to a latter extent exercising poor grooming habits.
I have an excellent head of hair, maybe the best of all time. There’s no way of knowing that for sure, is there? So it’s settled then. I have the best head of hair of all time. OK, so let’s move on.
According to a show I watched on cable television, the hair gene is passed down from your mother’s father. In that case this head of hair won’t be going anywhere.
Yeah, that’s right. I’m rubbing this in your face in print, all arrogant and confident like. My grandfather’s in heaven right now cursing a blue streak at Samson and his inferior head of biblical hair.
Even my longtime barber (her name is Bonnie and she prefers the term “stylist”) compliments my luscious, lovely and lady-killing locks upon each hair trim. She says my hair grows so fast, is very thick, has great volume, and that girls would kill for my hair.
I think that’s pretty awesome; well, except for that last part. I don’t know how I feel about that.
Right now, if you ran your hands through my hair I would, at first, be all freaked out. Walking up to a stranger and running your hands through their hair, unannounced, has a way of doing that. But after my initial shock went away (and I guilted you into giving me a few bucks for gas money) you would agree.
My flowing locks are any wigmaker’s dream and every bald man’s nightmare.
Except not a day goes by where some moron recites an off-the-cuff, tired cliche or remark about the length of my hair. “I didn’t recognize you under all that hair,” they smirk. Looks like we have a comedian!
As if my hair or hair style has the mystical ability to upset the delicate balance of the known universe. So much so that practically complete strangers will give me haircut advice.
A majority of the people who make snide remarks are bald or balding themselves. Guess how many times in my life I’ve taken a bald man’s guidance concerning my hair. Yeah, never. That’s like a super model taking dieting tips from Kirstie Alley.
What I ought to start doing is giving people a taste of their own medicine. “Oh yeah, baldy, well maybe my hair is a little long. But here’s some free hair advice: Try growing some or get a wig.”
Look, here’s how this works. There might come a day (super small chance actually, because genetics is a proven science) that I might — might — lose my hair. So while I got it, I am going to grow it. It’s as simple as that.
So if you’ll excuse me, uh, I need to go wash my hair.