It's cold, and I wish I had hair.
Hair is never around when you need it. My old man was very proud of his coif, and it paid him back by abandoning ship when he was in his early forties. I'm the only one who inherited his hair, or lack of it. Jesus tells us that "Even the hairs of your head have all been counted," and my head makes it easier than most.
Of course it's unfair. I have male friends in the sixties and seventies and one close to ninety who have full, flowing hair, generally in a stately shade of gray. This Key has no locks. My hair color is "scalp." So what's a guy to do when his mane starts making for the exits like the theater is on fire?
Before Christmas I had to go shopping with my wife for a last-minute present for a teenage girl. This took us to Forever 21, not a store I frequent, nor had ever actually set foot in before. In fact, my hairline is evidence that the concept of "forever twenty-one" is unlikely. Anyway, among the many things in that establishment that would not normally interest me were the hairpieces:
Stylish, huh? And I thought, Hey! No one would buy me in a bad toupee, but in a bad wig? A "fun" wig?
Nobody is expected to think that's your real hair. If you saw a girl in a club with one of those crazy wigs, your mind might say "That's fake hair" but your lizard brain might say "Wild hair!!! She looks like fun!" Of course, her real hair is probably not missing, like mine, but is beneath the wig, tied up in a bun so tight that when she smiles her kneecaps go up her thighs.
Now, I had to wonder, what would it be like to wear one of those?
Pretty great, huh? And as Don Imus used to say, I'm comfortable enough with my manliness to say long hair makes a fella good-lookin'. Don't you think?
Okay, back to the scalp look. And lots of hats.
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