There’s a heaviness in the air that’s extends beyond the oppressive Louisiana heat and humidity. It’s warranted for sure but it somehow makes the wetness stickier. Like it’s sticking to the inside of our ribs and making everything stale and spoiled. We need to feel it, but I can’t help feel like we could also use a teaspoon of levity in our lives. Something has to give, and make no mistake. It will be our collective ability to keep our shit together.
A story about my hair is in order.
I grew up with almost the same color hair my daughter has. A rich auburn. Not quite that flaming red you soulless gingers have, but a color that every woman would tel me they would “Just die for.” This was incredibly confidence building for
A sixth grade boy in south Mississippi growing up in the 80’s, when the tying of any sort of femininity to your pre-pubescent psyche wasn’t exactly what you wanted. Once the lady down the street told me I had it made because the tone of my hair combined with my skin color made me both an “autumn” and a “summer”, which meant I could wear almost any colors I wanted. 7th grade me had been wondering if I could pull off that yellow top.
My hair was rich and full, and waterproof like a beaver pelt. The beads of water welling up and falling away with such speed I barely needed a swim cap to make me faster in the pool. Funny, I don’t think it made me any faster.
With puberty came unexpected curls that stuck around for a couple years. Not tight little ringlets or anything, just an unruly waviness no amount of mousse and gel could contain. I know this because I tried using full cans of it to no avail. I wanted a Mohawk. I was denied.
In high school, I went to one of those institutions that said that the mettle of a young man was measured directly in proportion to the length of his hair. Godliness, intelligence and future successes tied intrinsically to whether or not my hair touched my collar or eyebrows as well as the wearing of a collared shirt and some sort of pants. The good Lord Jesus Christ’s hates only two things, the casualty of jean pockets and t-shirts. Amen.
Upon graduating high school I tried growing out my thick hair and found that the good Brothers of the Sacred Heart must have also placed some sort of juju on my lovely autumn hair so that despite how long I grew it, it never laid down. Up and out in a gravity defying crown of glory it grew, thick enough to raise my core body temperature 7 degrees.
Did I mention that over my first twenty years, almost no one could figure out how to cut it? Every third cut or so there be a flash of “maybe this will look how that picture I showed them looks,” and then the next time it would look like a drunk yard man with hedge clippers had gone to town. I had many hair stylists. Kept none.
By 1991 I’d had enough and shaved it off. This was a big gamble as who really knows if ones hair is just whacked or the result of some sort of misshaped head? It was an act of bravery and defiance and hope that there wasn’t some sort of rumpled speed bumps up there. Thankfully upon shaving, the temperature dropped and I was immediately labeled a skinhead. Didn’t see that one coming.
My dad grew to calling me Auschwitz, a term of endearment I hadn’t grown up with but love is love and I embraced it.
Apparently hair too short is also as bad as too long. I jumped right through the creamy middle of a perfect coif, all the whole while lowering my need for shampoo and conditioner, a money move that I never really truly appreciated at the time.
Finally towards the year 2000 I found people who could tame the beast, what with the giant steps in hair technology and the Rio hair straightener I was on the up and up.
As I approach my 50s though I am thankful for my hair. I can choose to be bald and the recent pandemic has shown that I can grow a mop full of it. I’m no longer an autumn or summer, as the auburn luxuriousness has given way to a head full of hair that falls on no color wheel. “Grayish I think” is what the kids call it.
After 75 days of just saving the sides down and growing what my wife referred to as a eurotrash mullet, I finally gave in and shaved it yet again. Staring into the mirror with the murmur of my dad’s chuckle and an off color joke about looking like I belonged in a concentration camp, yet still with more hair than most of my compatriots of the same age. Small victories.
#hugsandhi5s
