Hair - What's It Doing There!?

Somewhere, in the recesses of my scalp, hair grows.  I don’t understand it; I can’t explain it and I rarely think about it; but I am grateful for my crown.

Hair is an interesting topic and actually requires more of our attention than many things that we would certainly deem more important than hair. Ask anyone, “What’s important in your life right now?” and not one of them will respond, “Hair.” You’ll probably get answers like the economy, some pro football team, a good soap opera or a juicy steak. Some folks might say, “God, country and family,” but no one would answer “hair.”

But, ask anyone, “Is hair important to you?” and you’ll probably get answers like, “My hair certainly is” or simply, “Yeah, of course.” Others might respond, “What hair?”

We do think about our hair and we even make comments about the hair of others. If you were a mirror, you would testify to the importance human beings place on hair. Surely you have noticed people fluffing and poofing and combing and brushing and teasing and training their hair while patiently waiting at a stop light. And that’s just the men. Follow them from one stop light to the next and the routine remains the same.  A Broadway play glorified “Hair”. Hair became a statement in the 1960s. We really do like hair.

I have had hair on various parts of my body for over half a century. I know that doesn’t make me a hair expert, but I do know about my hair and I know what I like about hair.  If you’re having hair problems, perhaps a testimonial will help you out.

I didn’t care much about hair as a baby. I didn’t care much about anything as a baby; but my parents and various friends and relatives did care. When you’re under two foot long and weigh less than a bowling ball, there’s not much there to make comments about, so hair, or lack of, is always noticed and duly commented upon.

Hair still held little interest for me as I approached the teen years. Various friends and relatives also lost interest in it and parents only noted it enough to take me to the barber shop every other week. Our friendly, local barber didn’t even ask; he just got his faithful shears, lined my hair up on end, and cut it within half an inch of my scalp. We were all satisfied. Then, my hormones kicked in and my mind started taking notice of my body, which was running amuck, or was supposed to be going through some type of muck. My body was limping into puberty, while others my age charged on with pimples bursting in air, I was just beginning to feel strange and have strange dreams.

My elder brother, noted sage of the high school with his C-- average, made all this abundantly clear to me one day in the small bathroom of our wood-frame house. He even had the audacity to point it out to our mother. Big brothers lose their sensitivity mode when they are proclaimed big brother and admonished to love and care for their sibling. They didn’t like it at the time of said sibling’s birth and they were still fighting it 13 years later.

I have yet to figure out this march of hair across the body. It is a strange and not too wondrous thing to behold. Actually, most babies start out with some type of fuzz over most of the body. Look real close the next  time you’re near a baby and see if I’m correct. You’ll be astounded. But, that usually fades away. So, in a short time we are left with only the hair on our heads making any signifiant contribution of hirsuteness.  And, what is it doing there?

I have seen perfectly sane men with little or no hair on their heads. They like to make comments like, “I don’t waste my quota of hormones on hair.” Of course, these guys also wear hats a lot or part their hair within a quarter inch of their left ear. I understand that. I’m happy to report that hair still grows in most hair-growing slots on my head. That’s not a problem. The problem is that hair is now growing in places for which it was never intended to grow.  I know I didn’t invite it and I haven’t used any hair-growing whiz-bang tonics, so what’s it doing coming out of these strange cracks and crevices anyway?

As I slipped over into my 40s, I began to notice that hair was making its presence known in places that do not impress.  It had been sneaking out of my nose for some time now. I could accept that, having always known that hair was there, but it was sneaking out of other very visible places and I wanted it stopped.

Hair was now climbing out of my ears. I can not imagine how it ever got there. Does it fall in the ear canal during hair-cutting sessions and gradually germinate until it springs forth a full-fledged crop or what? I know I never planted it there.

And, there is another problem. I used to watch some of our honorable congressmen on television and wonder how they could grow such eyebrows - now I know. It has to do with being over 50. I now have eyebrows that are making their own ways in the world, again, uninvited by me; actually against my will. As my hairline recedes, my eyebrows are inching upwards, making me look like I’ve had an eyebrow lift.  I have trained my nose hairs to flow majestically into my mustache, giving me a fuller, more manly upper lip adornment.  I like that part, but now, past 40, into the 50s and dancing around 60s, I find hair marching up over my shoulders - both sides. Now, how in Samson’s wildest imagination, did that happen?  Will I need to start shaving my shoulders before long?  Is that manly or just gross?  Unchartered territory for me and I don’t know what to do with all this hair.

This tonsorial journey actually began with that frightful experience in our family bathroom after my entry into the teen years.

I was there one beautiful spring morning, enjoying myself before the bright yellow school bus came to whisk me away. I believe I was admiring what I considered to be my pecs at the time. My brother, the sage, entered the picture. Now it seems that I had been a bigger embarrassment to him than I had known for some time. And, apparently, his embarrassment had to do with my late blooming. So, he decided to unleash his fury upon me that morning. He has never enjoyed mornings anyway, so he decided to ruin mine.

He looked at my meager body, smirked and said, “Are you ever going to start shaving?” It was then that I made a fatal mistake. I reached for something above my head, leaving my underarm exposed.  His smirk went to a disdainful cry of anguish for what my body was doing to him. “You don’t even have any hair under your arm,” he agonized. “What is wrong with you? Mother, come look at this.”

I have yet to figure out why he had to involve my mother in this, but I had already reflexed my arm and cemented it to my side by the time she arrived. After relating to her the problem, she looked at him kind of strange and went back to the kitchen. But he wasn’t through pointing out my deficiencies.

“Are you a girl, or what? Why don’t you grow hair?”

Now, that may sound cruel, and I took it as such, but that last question was one  that I had been asking myself for some time now. “Where is the hair? What brings it forth? And, why is it not visible?” I didn’t have the answers to any of those questions and it bothered me. There I was with schoolmates who had been shaving for two years already and the girls were admiring their hair. I had nice hair on my head, but what does that matter when you’re 15 and it’s difficult, if not down right impossible, to find follicles elsewhere?

Eventually hair did spring forth from my armpits and I squelched the thought of going around with my hands in the air all the time; but still, about the only facial hair I could muster was the sprinkling found on my eyelids, eyebrows and nose hair. That was it for a long while. I shaved my face because I had heard that hair grows faster when it’s cut; but what happens when there’s none to cut. It didn’t seem to help any.

As a result I entered college as one of the very few freshman of the male variety, except for American Indians and Chinese, with peach fuzz. That’s one reason I had to extend my college career an extra two years. Well, that and the fact that Uncle Sam was awaiting my arrival into his army with open arms.  I just could not get a degree and go out into the world with peach fuzz.  Bad image.

Finally, facial follicles arrived and I determined that I had enough to grow a mustache - the mark of a true man. However, in order to make that manly mark, the mustache must be visible. Mine was, if you got up real close - like right under my nose. A friend, who had hair growing from all kinds of strange places by his early 20s, decided to grow a mustache at the same time I did. As we went places together, he received several comments about his new addition. They didn’t notice mine. I finally gave up and shaved it off - one smooth whack did the job.

As the years progressed, I got to the point in my pursuit of hair where I could actually grow a full-fledged beard and people could actually see it. Hair grew out of my face in a visible way. I had become a man. I was at the mid-20s mark, but I finally felt like a real man. It was then I received my draft notice and decided what I really wanted was to revert back to childhood and have my mother nearby to defend me.