I’d taken my own advice from the last column, Numbers 8 and 9 (hair cut and shave), but have now learned there are consequences. Ramifications. My choices were not “within reason”.

Long hair then and now: historical context. My dad–and other authoritarian figures–trying to raise a young boy from ages 11 to 18, were more concerned with the length of my hair than the breadth of my education. From sixth grade to high school graduation, there was a daily battle between them and me over hisrutey(sic) dimensions. (It was actually between me and the electric cow clippers mom used for her 30 second haircuts.) Everyone wanted my hair short, not even to the ears, which dad thought an “extreme” compromise. Think of the Beatles with “flat top” haircuts. Prevailing social thought was anyone with hair longer than one half inch was the gravest threat to the American way of life since The Plague.

After my freedom was gained by going to college, the hair exploded to a mass so large it was hard to get under my motorcycle helmet. (Think “Shaggy Easy Rider.) It made me a target of right wing gun nuts who were at that time only armed with single shot weapons and obviously paralyzed trigger fingers. (I heard one bang in all those years, and with hindsight, it might have been a car.)

Logic, prevailed, after a few years length of hair became less a political/fashion/rebellious statement than an attempt to reach complete casualness: short showers, easy slip on clothes, and one pass of the comb. (Notice I never made it to the “cow clippers” length.) It kind of remained that way for about 45 years until The Calamities hit in 2023. Yes, there were times when a professional hairstyle came to mind, but never did I succumb, never did I surrender. I cut my own hair most of that time, unless a willing female offered. Note: make sure it’s not an old girlfriend or ex-wife. So there was some thought and effort in grooming, Very little, but some.

Now, none at all. No reason, impetus, reward, or purpose for grooming a body which is letting me down. No need to look good for anyone, anyway. So head and face became one mess of hair that seldom sees a comb. So why am I not ecstatic? Why am I about to complain?

A morning swim friend said I look like the back end of a beaver when swimming. (He avoided my obvious, beastly question.) But that was only the first consequence of neglectful grooming. While driving home through downtown, the similarity between the homeless man on the corner, the homeless man on the bench, the homeless man crossing the street, the homeless man sitting on the stoop of a grocery store, and myself, was too eerie to ignore. It really didn’t make a difference to me what I looked like, but it might make a difference to others. Did it affect treatment in medical situations? Or the odd, implausible, out-of-nowhere possible, romantic scenario? At my age, what if the love of the rest of my life passed me by because it looked like my home was a Fridgiaire box?

A true compromise, in the tradition of the Wisdom of Soloman, is needed. How much hair do I need? How much do I want to care for? What will the enigmatic, beard-hating, future love of my life want my follicular situation to be?

The funny part of this essay isn’t my hair, but at least one bald person will read this and curse their genetic luck. To them: despite your lack of a choice, you’re luckier than you realize.