Hair There and Everywhere

The face in the mirror was mine.  Above the vibrations of the electric toothbrush and beyond the dark bags under my eyes that hinted at my true raccoon nature, I noticed that I must have had a really good hair day.  I have always understood that I was blessed with good hair.  Except in the early 70s, when I wanted straight hair.  Everyone else in the neighborhood had straight, hair why couldn’t I?  Of course you realize the neighborhood was absent of Jews and other ethnicities that might not have sandy blonde, straight hair.  Luckily, by Junior High curly hair was in.  My jewfro was born.  I haven’t had a part in my hair since 74 or 75.

When I was young, one of my favorite songs was “Hair” by the Cowsils.  There are Two key points here. First, surely you know the Cowsils were the model for the Partridge Family (No, we won’t dwell on Danny Bonaduce’s delightful history).  Second, as a child my mother routinely had the barber buzz off my hair every summer.  Hippies and long hairs were everywhere, but I looked like   Gomer Pyle, USMC on induction day.  Is it any wonder I grew my hair out as soon as I could attempt to develop my own identity?  I wonder how many parents realize they blindly force their progeny in the exact opposite direction from their intention.

My brother and I often joke how I got the good hair, and he got the personality.  His hair is more wiry than curly.  At 41 (can I still call him my baby brother?) he’s developing some parking lots.  There is room for a few cars in those lots.  Not like my ex-brother-in-law who has horrid hair.  His parking lots converged.   There was a roundabout in the center to control the flow of traffic in and out.  His was more of a trailer park.  Need room for a Winnebago?   He could accommodate several.  I attribute his bad hair to karma.  It was common knowledge he was seriously over drawn at the karma bank.  He often said he only read nonfiction as fiction was a waste of time.  He must have missed the section of the bookstore on hair care and maintenance.  That’s nonfiction.

The parking lots on my forehead are in the design stage – just enough room for Howard Wolowitz’s Vespa and Batgirl’s motorcycle.  Think she’d come visit?  I don’t think so either.  And 45 years later, my mental image of Yvonne Craig must be far afield from reality.  On most days, the curls edge into empty spaces like benign kudzu, making sure I look my best.  And that is without hair products.

The other day it occurred to me that it’s ok to have a Mohawk.  When did this change?  Growing up, savages had them in movies.  It never dawned on me to have a Mohawk.  Then, in about 82, Joe Strummer had one. But he was a punk.  (Do we still think of the Clash as a punk band?  I don’t. )  I’m sure other punks had Mohawks too,  but still I would have never dreamed of having one.  In 2010, Brian Wilson (no, not the Beach Boy) flaunted his (paired with a silly beard) on the mound nightly on CSNSportsNet.  And then the FauxHawk emerged, part of everyday life it seemed.  Parents shape their kid’s hair into FauxHawks, purposefully misleading these kids about how cook they are.  When reality hits, these kids may be the next wave of hipster doofuses, as Lambchop calls them.  Hell, even David Beckham as sported the FauxHawk.

As a trial balloon, I suggested to Lambchop that perhaps I should cut my hair into a Mohawk.  She replied, “Your hair is too good for a Mohawk.”  Too good?  Is there class warfare among hairstyles?    I would have accepted to gray, too thin or too corporate.  Too good implied that the Mohawk lived in the ghetto as juxtaposed with my palatial hairstyle.   My father always says, “there will be race war in your lifetime!”   Seriously?  How did I get from hair to ranting of a Fox News zealot? These were disconcerting thoughts so I banished them and left the room.


Leave a comment


  1. Ann

     /  May 13, 2012

    I’m loving the whole hair – parking lot analogy. Nicely written, keep it up. 🙂

  2. Jo Beck

     /  May 15, 2012

    “Jew-fro” tee-hee – John Stewart introduced me to that concept. These days I’m “parking” a stupid straw hat on my head – and it made me wonder – when did I become a “character”?

  3. Eldest Boy sports a nice jewfro, as well. He is known all over the school, not for anything he’s done, but for his hair. Better legacy than some of his classmates will be leaving, I imagine.


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