(Photo: Don’t tell Floyd, but I haven’t had my hair cut by a pro in years.)
Something many folks have missed during these days of avoiding coronavirus like the plague — which it is — is regular haircuts. A few brave folks, of course, have charged courageously into the salon because as Billy Crystal used to point out on Fernando’s Hideaway on “Saturday Night Live:” It’s better to look good than to feel good.”
Don’t I know it.
Some of you, though, have played it a little safer. You’re the guys looking like Shaggy from “Scooby-Doo,” and the women looking like Crystal Gayle, circa 1977. For you young kids, “Scooby-Doo” was an animated character from back when cartoons didn’t cause seizures, and Crystal Gayle is Loretta Lynn’s younger sister who had hair that once reached down somewhere around her ankles, making her a prettier version of Cousin It from “The Addams Family” with a better voice. And If you don’t know who Loretta Lynn is, well, that’s grounds for loss of American citizenship.
I haven’t been to a hair stylist, a barber or even a Super Dee Duper Cutters during the entire pandemic. In fact, I haven’t been to one since we had that horrific 2014 outbreak of four Ebola cases in the United States — or as the current president refers to it, an Obama Administration disaster compared to the Trump Administration’s crushing defeat of coronavirus.
For the past several years, my wife has been my stylist. It’s hard to believe when you gaze upon my head, but she’s had zero formal training in this area. We simply bought some haircutting kit at a store, and it’s worked out just fine.
Of course, as any real hairstylist would point out, “Um, anybody could cut that little bit of hair.” One, that’s offensive. And, two, like many offensive things, it’s rather true. When my wife says, “You need a haircut,” I always respond, “Which one?”
However, I was born with a head full of hair, way more than I have now. In fact, someone had to run out a buy a hairbrush for me. I handed them two bucks and said, “Thanks!”
Today my hair is thinning, receding, withdrawing, relocating and aggravating. My old boss Pork Chop got me into watching HBO’s “Curb Your Enthusiasm” more than a decade ago because, as she said, “You are Larry David.” I thought she was referring to my generally anti-human attitude, but maybe she saw what was about to happen with my hair. I’m not Larry David bald yet, mind you. I look a little more like Bruce Willis and Sinead O’Connor had a baby — a 200-pound baby with a margarita-flavored pacifier.
There are plenty of upsides to having a limited amount of hair. In fact, I’m now having my wife cut my hair on lower and lower settings because I want less and less to do with it. A couple of weeks ago, I had her cut it on level 3 and haven’t had to brush it since. Next time, I’m going to have her cut it below level 1 or whatever is closest to actually shaving my brain.
There are other advantages, such as being offered discounts at my local hardware store where the cashier always asks, “Are you military or veteran?”
“I was in a militant branch of the Cub Scouts,” I’ll say. “Killed a pack of Webelos. It was a long time ago, and I don’t like to talk about it.”
It doesn’t get you as many laughs in a crowded store as you might think. I guess I really do know how Larry David feels.
Of course, with my disappearing hair, he’s not the only celebrity with whom I get confused. It’s not unusual for me to hear women whispering after I walk by: “Is that The Rock? Wow, he’s even more of a stud in person,”
Then again, that probably has less to do with the hair and more to do with our similar physiques. Walking around as a finely chiseled hunk of manhood is just the burden we Johnson boys must bear.
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