Pass the pomade...

Today, the entire student body of Browns Bridge Academy received a haircut. On the drive home, the man-truck bus reeked of talcum, hair gel and lollipops.

The local barbershop is people-watching nirvana. I badly wanted to take some photos of customers getting their hair cut, but it seemed like improper "guy" behavior - like talking to the dude standing at the next urinal. Far be it from me to break the "guy code".

Anyway, it all got me to thinking. Of all the bizarre creatures in the animal kindgom, there is none to rival the "comb-over guy". You've seen him. He is the tonsorial (new vocab word) equivalent of a farmer rotating his crops. He has discovered that, while the vegetation on the top of his head has waned, the side of his head is enjoying a bumper crop. So he lets it grow unchecked, and begins to rake it over the barren spots. You won't see him at the barbershop - he avoids the barber at all costs.

Each day, Comb-over Guy convinces himself that no one will notice the elaborate structure on top of his head, and he heads out the door with confidence. Then, inevitably, comes that Mighty Wind.

I'm writing about this today because I have slowly come to the
realization that I am that guy. I mean, I've been a bit more subtle about it, eschewing the side-to-side comb-over for the more
cosmopolitan front-to-back version, in the image of Pat Riley; looking in the mirror, I envision myself pacing the bench, yelling for Abdul-Jabbar to "press the boards!", or whatever it is that championship basketball coaches yell to their players. Of course, his slicked-back follicles were a bit more honest than mine, not to mention good-looking.


The realization has come to me reluctantly. It started with a visit to the barbershop. The barber makes some small talk as he snaps a plastic garbage bag around my neck, and pumps up the chair. He steps over to his table to fetch comb and scissors. Then he moves to the back of the chair, raises his instruments, and suddenly stops. He furrows his brow as he looks at the top of my head, then glances up at me in the mirror as much as to say "what do you want me to do with this?" I offer a sheepish look and shrug my shoulders. He lowers his eyes and nods. This is the silent code shared between barbers and comb-over guys.

So, I've thought about alternatives. I could go with the Captain Stubing look from Love Boat. (shudders) I could shave my head completely, like so many guys are doing these days. (too much work, and at 150 pounds, it would only work if I wore a medical bracelet) I could get it surgically corrected. (checks endowment balance)

Sigh. There really is no alternative. I guess I'll just have to avoid the wind... and, at some point, the barber. Now, where did I leave my rake?