Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

My life abruptly changed when the Beatles first appeared on "The Ed Sullivan Show" in 1964. Of course, like every other teenager, I loved the music. But their hair. So rebellious. So avant-garde. 

From that evening on my own hair became a matter of existential importance. After 15 years of boring crew cuts, flattops and conservative Ivy League styles, I now had to look like those four cheeky guys from Liverpool. 

Unfortunately, the authority figures in my life did not embrace the idea of such a radical change in grooming with the same degree of enthusiasm. Actually, they hated it.

When my hair started to get a bit scruffy, coaches questioned my masculinity in words beyond the pale of today's social sensitivity. My parents gave me the old speech, "As long as you live under this roof … "

A complete moptop was totally forbidden, so my remaining high school years became a game of (hair length) inches. An uneasy truce was negotiated — bangs in the front, which conveniently served the additional purpose of covering those ghastly teenage forehead pimples, but nothing over the collar in back.

All of that changed when I was out of the house and off to college. At last I could have the "shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen" locks they sang about in the musical "Hair." 

Alas, the long-awaited "mane event" turned out to be a colossal flop. As it grew out my hair revealed itself to be thin, wispy, and honestly, just plain ugly. Bummer.

Even worse, perhaps as punishment for my vanity, I was cursed with a prematurely receding hairline that forever crushed my dreams of looking like Fabio.

As a card-carrying member of the radical 60s, I wore it long anyway for a couple of years, embellishing my already unsightly appearance with a dreadful mutton chops/mustache combo that made dogs bark and babies cry. 

Following college I joined the business world, waving goodbye to the hippie look and hello to years of unending bad hair days as my hairline continued its relentless retreat. Finally, at age 30 I looked in the mirror, said enough was enough, and made what at the time was an unthinkable decision: 

"Off with his hair!" 

It is impossible to articulate how extreme a shaved head was back then and, as a result, how uncomfortable I felt in public. People stared like I was an alien, looking me in the scalp instead of the eye. It seemed that heads turned and conversations stopped when I entered a restaurant. I silently wondered if I had replaced one problem with an even worse one. 

Friends and acquaintances I encountered for the first time post-pruning were so shocked by the new me that not one of them dared to inquire about my new hairdon't. They could not imagine anyone would do such a weird thing on purpose. 

I later learned it was privately assumed that I either a) joined the Hare Krishnas, or b) had cancer and was going through chemo, neither of which was a springboard to convivial conversation. 

Throughout the 80s it seemed to be just me, Yul Brynner and Telly Savalas. Then basketball superstar Michael Jordan shaved his head, and while nobody wanted to be like Edd, everyone wanted to be like Mike. Overnight the "chrome dome" look went mainstream.

Speaking of Mr. Brynner, a funny incident happened when our family was part of a big school group that toured China in the early 90s. While walking the streets in Shanghai, the locals kept crowding around me but not the others. 

Our guide revealed that, because the country's only access to U.S. television and films was old reruns, they thought a famous American movie star was in their midst, even though Yul had died several years earlier.

After playing the role of Baldilocks for the next 30-plus years, upon retirement I got a wild hair to once again let my freak flag fly and grow a ponytail. As the stubble surfaced, I discovered I was now actually bald — for real! 

With my days as a hairstyle pioneer behind me and no interest in trying to revive the Ben Franklin look, I (sigh) resigned myself to a lifetime of being a walking, talking department store mannequin.

I must candidly admit, sometimes it gets boring always looking the same. Over the course of our long marriage, my wife has enjoyed experimenting with different hairstyles and colors, while I wistfully observe, nursing a severe case of follicle envy.

But an unexpected benefit has reared its head on my way to becoming a senior Mr. Clean. While the gray, thinning hair of my male counterparts is a telltale sign of aging (Hey combover dude, you're not fooling anyone), my bald scalp has granted me immunity due to lack of evidence.

A case can be made that with today's climate-controlled environments and clothing, our species doesn't even need hair anymore. That is probably true as far as comfort goes, but in parting (the hair references just keep on comin') let me share a secret benefit of having hair that only bald people know. Hair provides an early warning signal that you are about to bang your head against a brick wall. Literally.

Over the years, lacking this valuable intel has led to innumerable and always unexpected scalp-meets-hard-surface encounters of the worst kind, occasionally involving trips to the emergency room and stitches.   

Everything considered, no regrets about my hair loss journey from oddball to mainstream. I take that back — there is one. If I had thought to set aside all the money I have saved on products and haircuts for more than 40 years, my retirement portfolio would certainly be way more robust.

But maybe I'm splitting hairs …