Sunday, May 07, 2000
Head of hair ain't what it used to be
By the time you read this, he'll have a head you could ski on. A head you could rub and ask favors. A cue ball, a snow globe. A Mr. Clean Head, the head of Michael Jordan. A real Kojak dome.
I will have filled his buzz-cut hair with Foamy. I will have made several of those long, lean razor passes the military barbers are good at. His old identity will be washed down the bathroom sink. He will have chosen this voluntarily. Why? I don't know. He's 14.
He'll be good luck. Also, bald.
“Why do you want your head shaved?” I wondered.
“It's the thing to do now. A lot of people have it,” he said.
“So it's the cool thing to do?”
“Yeah.”
“Do the girls like it?”
“Yeah.”
“What do they say?”
“They say I like your hair.”
“You won't have any hair.”
“They say I like your head.”
Every once in a while, it occurs to me that things have changed. When I was 14, 28 years ago, if I'd asked my father to shave my head, he'd have locked me in my room and tracked down the leader of the cult I'd joined.
“You're not going Moonie on me, big boy,” is what he'd have said.
In 1972, the only kids with short hair were handing out pamphlets at the airport or picking up trash on the highway, shackled at the ankles. The only kids with no hair were. . . uh, well, there were no kids with no hair.
“Does anyone have long hair now?” I asked my son who was soon to be Kojak.
“How long?” he wondered.
“Sixties long. Woodstock long. Country Joe and the Fish long.”
“Who?”
“Forget it. Nixon-hating long. Give peace a chance long. Longer than my elephant bell bottoms. Flow it, show it, long-as-God-can-grow-it long.”
“Whatever, Dad,” my son said.
I had problems with my dad. They were typical. Too many chores, not enough car. Too many lectures. I got yelled at so much that after a while, I could tell what he was saying simply by the ups and downs in his voice. “Do you understand me?” had a singular cadence, as did “Look at me when I'm talking to you.” (Followed immediately by, “Don't look at me like that.”)
I could tune out his words and imagine I was in a better place, such as away from my chores and in my car.
But no conflict raged and endured like the hair war. My dad the ex-Marine determined that I would look like Ozzie Nelson when the rest of Teen Nation looked like Ozzy Osborne. I bear the psychological scars to this day.
More than once, I had to go back to the barber shop after my father decided I didn't get enough hair cut. “I shouldn't have done that,” he said just the other day.
Great, Pop. Tell it to my therapist.
My son enjoys the tolerance that a history of tyranny can bring. He can do whatever he wants with his hair. Or, in this case, without it.
“Bring me the razor, Big Time,” I say. This is going to be fun.
Ex-minister, selling a dream draws investors, investigators
RADEL: All's right again: Fountain's back
Residents rave over renovation
Abortion ruling may affect Ky.
Bets, celebs, class, crass
Bush-Voinovich ticket? Just maybe
Pornography battle shifts
KIESEWETTER: Drew Carey sings praises of 'Geppetto'
A.M. REPORT
America's best illustrators at Art Institute
Bengals quiet on drink issue
Census oversights irritate many in disabled community
'Cinderella' introduces new audience to ballet
Clergy, rescuers honor tradition
DEMALINE: Playwright Athol Fugard at UC this fall
Get to it
DAUGHERTY: Head of hair ain't what it used to be
Ky. awaits abortion decision
Mason schools may add offerings
New street closings listed
Painter picks 'Dandelion Swine'
Patrol pedals emergency aid
Preservationists find they must take on tough battles
PULFER: Shopping 101
SAMPLES: Chaperones monitor safety at post-prom events
Stars shine on summer theater screens
Theater review
They intend to walk the world
UC biologist takes survey of plant life
Underground Railroad site gets grant
BRONSON: No heroes
CROWLEY: Kentucky politics
Queen City's moments to shine reflected in book
