I used to have hair

I used to have hair.

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

Growing up my hair was nothing spectacular. Blonde, kept short as was the style back then. Straight, until it was not. When I was about seven or eight years old, my hair started to curl. It seemed as though it got a little more curly every time it was cut. Almost all of the boys my age got a haircut about three times a year. August, just before school started. December, just in time for the holidays and holiday pictures. Then again in the spring, maybe closer to the end of school. Probably easier to say sheared by then, but it was cooler and easier to take care of over the summer. 

As I got old enough to start to take care of my own hair, I would let it grow a little longer once in a while. Junior high and high school frequently saw me with an afro. I kept it clean, I kept it neat, but it was an afro. When I got it cut, it basically stayed an afro, just shorter. My senior year it was long. Long enough that if I shook my head, I could feel my hair still moving after I stopped shaking. 

I grew it out even though it was not the style of the day (my amazing rebellious attitude…) and even though I got all kinds of hell from a lot of the kids. Kids, like chickens, will target anybody else in the flock that is different. And, like a chick with a black dot on its head, my afro made me different from just about everybody. “Crotch-head” was one of the names I was called. Lucky me. I would get spit wads and chewed up gum thrown into my hair. Kids are lovely. 

Later, when I started to grow into my hair and was a little more likely to be large enough and likely enough to fight back, things settled down into mostly just name calling. People are lovely. Then again, a six-foot tall orange dandelion gets attention.

Even more later, I grew my hair out long enough to pull it back into a ponytail. I would get it wet in the morning after I got up, brush it out, then put a holder in to keep it in place. Even used hairspray to help tame flyaways. It was long enough that it almost reached the middle of my back. But since it was curly, as it dried my ponytail ended up looking like a curly pigtail. I did not do it for any kind of look, it was just on a whim. When I rode my motorcycle, it was a six-foot tall, leather-clad Mario Batali look-alike. By the end of the day after being in and out of a motorcycle helmet and taking it out of the hair-tie, my hair would take on a life of epic proportions. It was possessed. It was majestic in the rage it showed.

I cut it short again later. Long hair is a lot of work, very curly long hair is more. Plus, I did not like the idea of having a “handle” on my head, in which someone in a less-than friendly manner may try to get my attention. So, long hair and long beard were trimmed. Easier to maintain. I may have cut in in self-defense, but it really is just simpler. It also dries faster when it gets wet. Now, every few weeks I get out the clippers and cut my hair and trim my beard. I have had my mustache for almost four decades now, and my beard for over thirty years. Sometimes I think I will shave them both off, possibly my whole head, just to see what I look like. 

It would probably scare the dogs.