I Got Hair, The Pictureless Newspaper Column Edition

I got hair.

I may not have a lot going for me, being chubby and short, and with a  face that is, uh, somewhat less than classic.

But I do got hair.  A full head of it, with no receding hairline.   The space between my eyebrows and the beginning of my hairline is pretty small.  And that's been true virtually from the time I was hatched.  I was born sporting a crop.

I wish I had something to do with it.  But it was a genetic gift from my Dad.  He never went bald, his hairline never receded, all the way up to when he passed at 91.

My hair style has been fairly consistent over the years.  There were a couple of times that I had a crewcut. When I was twelve and got one, I think it was my Dad worrying about the hippies, and for me not to look like one, as if my hair length alone would disbar me from the counterculture.  It did not stick, because even my Dad could see that I was not built to look adequately human with a crewcut, what with my craggy skull, with it's odd bumps and dips, and that I would sunburn terribly. If I stayed outside even a short time,  my head would look like it was on fire, a nuclear glow that looked like it could explode at any moment.

The biggest variations in my hairstyle were courtesy of the theatre, and my many different roles I have played over the years.  The most bizarre came in high school, when I played a young man whom the script identified as blonde.  Well, my hair at the time was fairly dark, but that did not deter the director.  They decided to dye my hair blonde.  It did not work, and my hair came out a ghastly orange. I looked like a cross between a teenage Joker, and the very first punk rocker.  Yes, that was me.  I was the first.  I started the trend towards wild punk rock hair.  You're welcome, America.

Another high school play, a musical about Superman, I played the mad scientist villain, and my hair was piled beehive high and turned white.  Turning my hair white has been less and less of a problem over the years, actually starting in my mid-thirties.  I remember a few years ago playing Santa Claus in Miracle on 34th Street and asking if they needed to turn my hair whiter.  "No," they said.  "you're good."

The only other change as I reached my forties was to add a short beard.  It's major function is to hide the fact that I virtually have no chin - my face just kind of blubbers down into my neck.

All three of my boys have healthy heads of hair.  The two older boys, now that they are in their thirties, are starting to experience the joys of premature graying.

Yep.

I got hair.

Thank you, Dad, for this wonderful genetic gift.  I and my boys feel blessed.