Hair Trauma

MONDAY 56
Monday
Sept 28, 2009

Hair Trauma

Last night my wife convinced me to dye my hair. I am a man who has gray hair and her thought was that I would enjoy looking 10 years younger. So far I am not convinced it is worth the trauma. It’s not like I went out, got drunk and had the Grim Reaper tattooed on my nipple. But when I looked in the mirror this morning I didn’t really recognize my reflection. It looked like Andy Warhol took my head and colored in all the parts with random hues like he did with Marilyn Monroe. I had become pop art and I felt dirty. I was wearing a living wig. And worst of all, the color screamed paranoid 56 year old who wants everyone to know that he still gets boners and can run the 50-yard dash in under 8 seconds.

As I went to school to pick up my two small children, Annabel, an observant 6 year old,
stared at my head like a leech was sucking my ears off. She didn’t say anything then,
but she later told her mom that my hair had changed. I snuck by all the other Moms and Dads, teachers and students, picked up my two lovely offspring, and darted for the mini-van. Just as I was to duck into my sanctuary, Chet, my 9 year old, announced to the standing hoards that his Daddy had colored his hair. My AARP card pulsated in my pocket. Why was I so up tight about being judged by a swarm of breeders and educators? Why should they care what color my hair has been changed to in need of virility security. I mean, heck, they all saw me last year in the kid’s school program wearing pantyhose. Well, I guess it looks really natural, if I was an Orangutan. But I’m not, and to be honest, I kind of miss the seasoned gray wisps that tell the truth about my time on earth.

Before I go on, there are a couple of things I need to address. I wore pantyhose in the school program because I was portraying William Shakespeare. It’s a Christian School and it might have bothered them hearing children say,” you look great in pantyhose Mr. Monday!” and “My mom thinks you have really nice legs.” Of course I do have nice legs for a 56-year-old man. I would have never worn pantyhose in the Program if I didn’t have nice legs.

And that’s the other thing; I have a 6-year-old daughter and a 9-year-old son. Raising children in the autumn of your life is not what most people expect to be doing. I guess I just got lucky with that one. It’s the only time I’ve ever raised kids so I don’t know the difference. Which brings me back to my hair. As I cruise through the day, I don’t see my own hair, my bald ankles or the rounding of my shoulders. I only see what’s in front of me. I don’t look at things as a gray haired guy, or an Orangutan. I look at things as I always have, with a biting sarcasm and unnatural distrust. My parents taught me well.