It occurs to me that I am not a hat person. I tried for a time, back in my ‘John Denver’ days, tugging a rough-hewn leather cowboy hat over my long (and typically greasy) locks in the hopes of being mistaken for a musician. It was a short-lived period and one that never achieved the desired results.
I will pull on a baseball cap when I go fishing, but there are quite literally two hats I chose from on those occasions. Even when I go hiking, many times my expensive ‘outdoors’ hat (the one with mesh cooling vents and a removable Lawrence of Arabia neck shroud) gets left behind in the car. Foolish, perhaps, should the weather take a turn, but I would rather feel the wind in my hair than cover my noggin.
Not to brag, but I do have a pretty good mane, especially considering my age (you’ve heard of Methuselah, oldest man in the Bible? I’m his dad). Other things may be sagging, swelling or outright falling off, but the hairline is hanging in there. Yes, my vanity might be showing, but why not flaunt what you got.
In that spirit, I’ve decided to try and grow it out one more time after watching a few episodes of The Kominsky Method. I’m thinking I could give the Michael Douglas/Sam Elliot look a go, though I am also keenly aware that you’re only a couple of Hot Buttered Rums away from the Nick Nolte ‘sleeping on the park bench’ coif (see above).
I am at the point right now where I either need to get a haircut or commit to the shag. Previous attempts have been thwarted by an obsessive need to keep my advancing locks from touching my ears. This may be an ‘old guy’ thing, as it was never a concern when I wore my hair down to my shoulders.
But these days I seem to be much more sensitive to it, and find myself pushing my hair back constantly. So, short of being put into a medically-induced coma until I look like a hoary Fabio, this may give me cause to resurrect the mullet – providing length while still keeping the ears out of the fray.
These latest thoughts about “letting my freak flag fly” – as Crosby, Stills and Nash crooned in Almost Cut My Hair – had their seeds in the pandemic, when the simple act of getting a haircut could mean taking your life in your hands. So trips to the salon were delayed as long as possible, and while that made for many a Doc Brown moment (when you see yourself in the mirror and spontaneously exclaim, “Great Scott!”), it also had me reminiscing about the good ol’ days of tangled tresses and pony tails.
There was high school, of course, because it was the seventies and long hair was mandatory. The eighties didn’t put much of a crimp in my style, either, thanks to the afore-mentioned mullet. Then it came time to toe the line and sport grownup hair, though I did manage to gain back some length in the months after we moved to Colorado, while I waited for employers to beat a path to my door.
There’s a bit more gray these days (and by ‘a bit’ I mean a shitload), but society gives me a pass and calls it ‘distinguished.’ Then again, ‘distinguished’ isn’t necessarily a look you want to sport for a job interview. Which may be a big part of why it’s been such a challenge for me to find gainful employment following our relocation.
But hell, St. Nick himself is rocking a righteous white mop in all his promotional materials and at his many mall appearances. I guess if that shaggy old hipster can find a gig, then there’s hope for me.