Lost in Time

Back in early August of this year I decided to grow out what’s left of my hair. I thought the exercise might be sort of cool, and in the back of my mind I was looking forward to being able to once again pull it all back into a pony tail and relive for a little while the sometimes rebellious days of my youth. I also had the wishful idea that maybe once top of my head got wind of what his neighbors on the sides and back of my head were doing, they’d be motivated to regenerate and get moving again up there and join the party which would leave me, once again, with a full head of hair.

The hair-growing was going all right. About a month in and I felt like I finally had a need for the shampoo I’d been wasting money on for years. Six weeks in and I’m a little dismayed by the amount of gray I’m seeing, but I can get used to that. Two months in and I was actually re-experiencing the feel of the breeze through my hair. Who cares about gray when I’m feeling a breeze again! At ten weeks, it felt good to see that the hair on the sides and back hadn’t lost their independence and were once again moving off into independent curls and twists of their own and I began digging through dresser drawers and closets for my old blow dryer. Three months of growth and there I was, standing at Walgreens suffering from sticker shock over rise in the price of combs. Whatever happened to 49¢ for a two-pack of pocket combs? 

“Oh, say, can you see my eyes? If you can, then my hair’s too short.” – James Rado

I have to admit that the longer hair on the sides seemed to make me look a little bit balder on top, but we all have to make sacrifices along the road, right? And as much as I thought about it, I wasn’t convinced that was going to be a permanent effect and wasn’t just something that would pass as the hair grew and filled in. Besides, I was prepared, I reaffirmed, to make certain sacrifices for that pony tail.

Last week a sense of reality sort of hit home. I’m talking with a friend and the talk turns to my ‘longish’ hair.

“You growing your hair for a reason?” she asked.

“Nah, just for the fun of it. I think It’d be fun to have a ponytail again.”

She nods her head. “Really.”

Not a question, but I answer anyway.

“Yeah. And maybe… who knows, maybe Taylor Swift might want to run her fingers through my new hair.”

“While sparks fly in the rain, huh?”

“You never know.”

“You don’t think you’re a little old for Taylor Swift? She’s what, 15?”

“21, I think. And I like the lyrics.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“And besides, I think women like it. I’ve been noticing them looking at me more.”

“They probably don’t know if they should offer you their spare change, call the police or simply back away from you.”

“Funny. No, I really think they like it.”

A pause while she takes a little closer look. “So, a ponytail, huh? Not a mullet?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Well?”

“I was never a mullet guy.”

“No, I guess you weren’t. So, Michael, do you really want to look like an old hippie?”

“Well, I sort of am an old hippie.”

“Yeah, but do you really want to look like one? Do you want to be that guy with his desperately thin, gray hair pulled back into a ponytail and look like you’re stuck 35 years in the past?”

I did the math. “1976 was a good time.”

“I know, I liked it, too, but I’m not wearing beads and tie-dye or yellow peace signs on the back of my hand anymore. We sort of move on at some point, don’t you think, hmm?”

“You’re saying I’m an anachronism?”

“Not yet,” she said while giving the sides of my head another look. “But you’re on your way. And with a ponytail…”

“What?”

“What do you think?”

I thought she was wrong but no matter how much I tried, I really couldn’t argue with her logic. Before too long I started feeling the air slowly seeping out of my new ponytail balloon and the little breeze of escaping air suddenly didn’t feel so good blowing through my hair. I tried thinking about it but all I could come up with was that I was happy I hadn’t dropped two bucks for one lousy pocket comb. Later that night at home I did what any old hippie could do and, looking at myself in the mirror, I cut my hair. Again.

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