Losing It

I’ve been trying to convince the guy who cuts my hair that he should start charging me less and less each time I visit. You see, although I prefer the term “thinning,” my hair is basically falling out. With a reduced amount of hair to cut each time, it would seem to me that there is less work to be done. Brian counters with the argument that it actually takes longer to make my head presentable. By “presentable” he means less likely to frighten domesticated animals and small children. He says that the job takes more effort because he has less material to work with; something akin to a sculptor trying to make do with an inadequate amount of clay.

I always use the term “the guy who cuts my hair” because as a manly man I don’t like to say that I go to a hair stylist. I would prefer to say that I use a barber, but you don’t see too many of those anymore. If you do find one, chances are, the only haircuts he knows are the bowl cut or the Sergeant Carter.

When I was a kid, my dad used to wear his hair as though he had just been inducted into the marines and he insisted that my brothers and I do the same. This was back in the late 1960’s in Central Florida and astronaut chic was all the rage. We lived just an hour west of Cape Kennedy before the Disney invasion so NASA provided one of the strongest cultural influences in our neck of the woods. Of course, now everyone who lives in Orlando wears Mickey Mouse ears.

The space cowboys wore their hair short because of their military background. All the geeks and engineers who supported the space program wore their hair the same way in hopes of fooling naive space groupies into thinking they were astronauts. The bars in Cocoa Beach were crawling with women who wanted to meet astronauts.

My father wore his hair that way because he was a serious guy and he was in the business of supplying electronic components to NASA. Engineers and scientists are a timid bunch, wary of outsiders. You have to approach cautiously or they scurry down their rabbit holes and hide. My father had to talk the talk, walk the walk and wear the hair, but I’m sure he wasn’t interested in space groupies.

I will always remember being dragged to the barber shop with my equally reluctant brothers on Saturday mornings. The prospect of getting a buzzcut while at the same time missing a new episode of Jonny Quest was almost too much to bear. For my father it was a simple male bonding ritual. For my brothers and I it was one more opportunity to view the ever-widening chasm which came to be known as the generation gap.

Naturally, we rebelled against this oppressive intrusion on our basic sense of freedom. Although the Apollo missions were exciting to dream about, we were more interested in looking like Paul McCartney than John Glenn. Let’s face it; the Beatles had more groupies than the astronauts and boy could they scream.

My younger brother disappointed me whenever the subject of haircuts came up. I counted on Steve to get the dialogue started on controversial matters. He had a knack for inciting conflict and usually ended up butting heads with my father. He would often get my dad so angry that yelling would follow and, in the end, a harsh punishment was his reward. During the aftermath, I could usually step in as a concerned diplomat and, while my father was feeling guilty for meting out a stiff sentence, I would secure at least a partial concession on his part. Steve didn’t know that I used him this way, but it was a system I manipulated for years. Anyone who doesn’t understand this is probably an only child.

Haircuts were different though. For some reason Steve didn’t mind getting the old buzz cut. Here was a boy who wore cowboy boots with dark socks and shorts so you might assume he had a better sense of style. But no, this was one of the few ways Steve actually ingratiated himself to my father.

Without an opportunity to take unfair advantage of my father’s guilty feelings, there was nothing I could do. My brothers and I were young and we had no rights so we suffered the indignity of short hair until we got older and my father mellowed. He continued to wear his crew cut well into the 1970’s, but gradually my brothers and I were allowed to grow our hair longer.

I guess it’s mildly ironic that now I wear my hair short. It’s not a crew cut and it’s probably longer than my father ever wore his hair, but it’s pretty conservative. I’m also happy to report that the passage of time along with intense psychotherapy have helped to diminish my fear of barber poles.

Styles change and so do values. Haircuts seem to run the gamut for teenagers these days. I think this subject is less often a battleground for freedom of expression like it was when I was a kid. Today parents are faced with bigger concerns like tattoos, body piercing and co-ed sleepovers. All things considered, can you blame me for keeping my kids locked in the basement?

© 2005 David Theall