Thankfully, I’m not obsessed with my hair. As a matter of fact, I no longer have enough to obsess over. There was a time when Bob Walther and I were the very first guy’s from our high school that went to Frank Anthony’s Hair Stylists. I continued to go there to get my hair “styled” for twenty years. This afforded me membership into an exclusive club of customers that accumulated that many years of patronage.
I got my hair blow dried, dried under lamps, dried and styled with a hot comb, remember those? My hair was towel dried so it would look like a “loose wave perm” whatever the fuck that was. Tony was able to do all kinds of things with my hair because I had so much of it, no longer.
As I got older Tony styled my hair so I looked like I had more of it. He arranged my hair in such a way to give the illusion of fullness. I tried mousse. I tried hair spray so it never moved in the blusteriest of hurricanes. I left it long, and combed it back using gel to keep it slick against my ever expanding head. Nothing could ward off the ravages of time. I went to the dandelion look, and now have succumbed to the Q-Tip look. I was destined to suffer from the most dreaded of male diseases (MPB) aside from the one that society tells men is the most dreaded (EDS).
Having difficulty getting lead in your pencil and keeping it there can be hidden no matter how bad TV ads make you feel. Male pattern baldness cannot be hidden from anybody no matter how hard you try, and to what lengths men seem to feel the need to do so. I am here to tell my male counterparts, you’re not fooling anyone. Here are a few of the things I’ve spotted in the great pursuit of eternal youth.
If your funds are limited, there is the old standard “combover.” Donald Trump has one of the fanciest, highest maintenance one’s around. I jokingly used to tell people that due to my limited hair or hair per se; I got my hair arranged. Even those days have gone the way of the Mastodon. The Donald must have a hair stylist on call 24/7. The upkeep on that hair must be astronomical as well as time consuming. However, his dye job leaves something to be desired. But everyone doesn’t have Trump’s money, so they have to resort to letting their sideburns grow until that hair touches the shoulder, then they’re able to voila, comb it over. It looks like hell, but if it makes these men feel better about themselves, well, good for you! But you still look like an ass and I don’t care how your insignificant insecurities eat away at your psyche.
Then there are the dyes jobs. Oh boy. Now I’m not talking about those funky David Bowie colors we put in our hair back in the ‘80’s to show how new wave we were. I’m talking about the Kiwi touch up that looks as if you told the guy in Grand Central Station “When you’re done with my Florsheims, would you rub about a half a can on my head.” I know people whose hair is so black –even though it never was to begin with- it looks like mannequin hair. And when you don’t keep up with it, the hair takes on a tri-color hue; black in spots, a faded orangey brown in others, with a little natural gray thrown in for good measure. Hey you! Yes you Mr. Eighty year old with the coal soot hair; I’m talking to you!
Bad toupees are another misguided attempt at hair-like skull coverage. I say “bad” because as I see it, there are no good ones. Oh sure, I may say “Wow! That’s a really good looking hair piece.” But if it was indeed that good, I wouldn’t be able to tell it was a hair piece. Why would anyone want to wear what looks like a dead animal on their head? I understand men who use them to cover scars or a skin disorder; but in this age of shaved heads being all the rage, why spend all that money? I had a neighbor who looked as if some mornings he tossed his rug in the air and ran underneath it, letting the toupe remain as it landed. And he looked great without it; distinguished and dignified. I can’t understand why he preferred silly and ridiculous.
Lastly, there are the big spenders. The men who want to go through the painful procedure of hair plugs. Not only is it painful, but the cost to do an effective job is almost prohibitive. So they do what seems like a trial run. Like the guy who’s restoring a car but only has enough money to do a half-ass job. And what’s wrong with the doctor’s who convince these guys to remove hair from the back of their heads and place these plugs in a perfect semi-circle along one’s brow. These guys look like a human Chia pet until the hair grows in long enough to comb it straight back to cover the bald area you didn’t have the money to transplant. To make matters worse, the back of your head looks like a Titleist golf ball cover after it’s been shanked into a large oak tree. No, no it looks great, really!
Don’t any of these men have wives or girlfriends? They couldn’t possibly encourage their husbands to do some of this shit to themselves could they? “Oh Honey, you look so wonderful I’m about to swoon!”
The only tolerable alternative that makes sense is what my friend calls “Camo.” It reminds me of that old women’s hair color ad, “Does she, or doesn’t she.” In this case it’s a “he.” And no you can’t really tell he colors his hair. There is color (not the real color mind you, but that doesn’t matter) and there is gray. I gotta tell you, it looks like the natural aging process, and isn’t that what us men should be trying to achieve? Not turn back time, but enhance what’s left.
Clint Eastwood doesn’t color his hair. Shit, he doesn’t even do a “Bob Barker” or “Leslie Nielsen.” Clint just let it turn gray and fall out. Sam Elliot has a head full of gray hair, and he still looks pretty badass. George Clooney’s hair looks better when he leaves it alone. Not so Nicholas Cage; he looks sad.
Look,I'm not immune to vanity. One time after repeated vehement refusals, I gave in and let Tony spray that shit on my head that was supposed to cover my once small bald spot. I felt like a douche, and when I looked in the mirror at it, I looked like a douche. Maybe others couldn’t tell what I did, but I could. I may get old and bald, but I refuse to get old, fat and bald. I’m not ready to shave my head. That’s the last resort. I have so many scars and lumps on my head that I’d look like a dirt road after it rains, then several cars drive on it, and then it dries out.
I got my haircut today. It took about ten minutes, max. There is significantly more gray hair on the black smock draped over the front of me then there is hair my color. It makes me a little sad, but not too much. I know the day is coming when all the hair in the middle will be gone and I’ll left with chaps of the head, then I’ll shave it. Just another stage of my life. I don’t need hair to hold onto my youth, I’m terribly immature, that will suffice. And don’t get me going about facelifts for men.
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