A Hairy Situation
Just finished my first road trip in almost two years and alarmingly discovered that I have crossed yet another rubicon in the great hall of aging: If I am away from home for more than three days, I must now bring along my electric nose hair trimmer. It looked so unsightly that by day four, I considered purchasing a lawn mower at Home Depot.
Maybe I’m being too self-conscious, but I find a jutting nostril whisk broom to be distracting. You could be outlining the options afforded me in collecting my $800 million Power Ball winnings, but if you’ve got a three or four wild hairs peeking out your schnozzle, I will not have heard a word. I meet new people all the time in my line of work, and I don’t want their first impression impeded by an untidy underbrush in my proboscis.
My eyebrows are also growing longer and turning gray. Cara suggested I dye them. That sounds like a slippery slope. What happens a month later when I’m working a cruise in the Caribbean and my roots are showing? Does Supercuts do root touch-ups on facial hair? Is there a Supercuts in Aruba? If so, how do you say “eyebrows” in Papiamento or Dutch?
Cara offered, “You just need a mascara brush and you can do it yourself.” I abruptly replied, “I am a 69-year-old man and I refuse to pack a mascara brush in my Dopp kit!” Who knows what’s next? A year from now you’ll find me on RuPaul’s Old Lady Drag Race. I’ll probably get beat by a contestant who can mimic all four Golden Girls. I’ve had enough show biz rejections for one career. I don’t need anymore.
Long ago I decided to let the genetic chips fall where they may. I’ve been lucky on the hair front but nowadays I can see my forehead gaining ground on my follicles, and it’s about time! Old men with a full head of hair freak me out. Especially, if they’re wearing young man clothes. From the rear they’re Harry Styles, but from the front they’re Harry Truman.
Speaking of octogenarians with mop tops, what’s the deal with Robert Redford’s hair? It’s the same now than the way it was in “The Way We Were”. He’s 85 and he just looks weird. You can’t have Troy Donahue hair and a Jessica Tandy face. And he’s stuck now. He is that hair. It’s his trademark. He can’t show up on the set without it. He doesn’t dare shave his head. The director would say, “If we wanted Alan Arkin, we would have hired Alan Arkin.”
As is apparent, I am obsessive about hair. When I was in high school, I had Beach Boys hair. But that wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted the same hair as my friend Vince. He had thick, almost wiry black hair that never moved. I wanted hair that never moved. My mother offered to take me to her hairdresser who permed my hair. The result was traumatic. I looked like Shirley Temple with sideburns. It took me at least five shampoos to where I finally forgot the words to “On the Good Ship Lollipop.”
Hair comes and goes. In my case, it’s coming from my nose and going from head. I can feel it when I shampoo. I used to blow dry my hair. It was thick and would fall right into place. Now if I point the blow dryer from arm’s length, each hair first scatters then fights for position, like NBA forwards vying for a rebound.
If I want my meager mane to have body, I’ve got to apply spray or goo. The result is a consistent shape but a telling peek at my scalp because the hairs gather. Strength in numbers. It’s a lose-lose. Soon I will be presented with option of looking like Boris Johnson or Bill O’Reilly. Not exactly a Sophie’s Choice.
I feel you can offset the effects of your departing do with a healthy appearance. If you’re the Werewolf of London and your hair is perfect, no one will notice if the rest of you looks like Harry the Hippo. I’d rather be Michael Jordan than Michael Moore. I have no illusions of becoming hunky but swimming several times a week keeps me from getting chunky. Good for the ticker, too.
Soon, as it gets colder, I’ll be growing a beard again. My winter coat. And if anyone dares comment on my advancing forehead, I will defensively reply, “I’m not losing my hair. I’m just moving it around.”