Shorn ’nuff

January 16, 2007

The slow creep of Age will occasionally tap you on the shoulder and remind you of its presence.  I was most recently tapped on my birthday in December.  In conversation with a friend several states away, who has not seen me in person in quite a while, the comment was made that I should not worry about getting old and “going bald”. 

Going bald.  Not “losing my hair” or “aging gracefully”: going bald.  Like, “Hope you enjoyed all of those follicles, because they’re soon going to find another place to reside, and it’s probably the drain in your shower” going bald.  I still think of myself, and am frequently reminded, that I’m still a young pup.  Baldness would be the thing that would tip me over from looking my age (or perhaps younger) to “he’s younger than he looks” territory.

This was cause for minor panic, as well as some ruminations on the passing of time.  I realized that my standard joke about how my drivers license picture makes me look sixteen is funny becaue I’m ten years removed from the year I learned to drive.  I’ve found kids that I used to baby sit on Facebook, and they’re not underclassmen.  Plus, I’m closer to thirty than to eighteen, and by a significant margin.  So I guess I’m an adult, and it’s going to stay that way for a while.

Back to the hair thing: when my hair is longer, it can look suspiciously like a comb-over because of my new hairline. Not good.  Last thing I want to do is be this guy.  But because of the silly cowlick I’ve battled since the early days of my youth, I’ve always had hair that tended to flop over like that.  (who licks a cow, anyway?  or stands still long enough to let a cow lick them? I need answers!)   So last night, I set out to see if I could come up with something potentially less embarassing than my current hairstyle.

Say what you will about politics and everything, but gay guys know hair, and they know guys hair even better.  For the past three plus years, my regular hair stylist has been a middle aged Chinese woman; I’m pretty certain I was one of her few male clients, and definitely one of the few under forty.  Every time she cut my hair, I think she thought I was heading to an audition for a revival of the Dick Van Dyke Show, because I came out styled with some 1950’s looking monstrosity.   She was always good for propping up my ego by telling me I was cute, and was one of the early proponents of The Beard.  Still, she wouldn’t know a young-looking haircut if it came up and stole her entire collection of Paul Fredrick styling products.  So I went to Xzavier last night.  No, that’s not a typo.

Crimes against the English language aside, Xzavier did a heckuva job coming up with something that brings out my features and works in both professional and non-professional contexts.  So without further ado…





Yeah, that’s more like a twenty six year old in denial.


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