When I was a young teen my first real facial hair was a single black hair that looked like an eyelash that grew on the front of my chin. It’s was my entire beard. Later in life, I grew my hair out long but facial hair grew like weeds on a rock. Finally, in my mid twenties my beard filled out, specked with grey, but my forehead started to grow about the same time.

In 1998, I was working in a town whose grocery store had a Deli and a guy working there had spiked up the hair on his forehead to make it look fuller. I shaved my head that weekend. Nothing looks worse than a balding man trying not to look like he’s lost his hair.  Everyone freaked out, but now it’s normal because most people have never seen me with hair.

But nature is cruel.

I dated a woman who asked me to grow my hair out, just to see how it looked. During the process I was sitting outside a coffee shoppe and a woman dropped some change into my cup. I have to admit my hair, growing out like drunken dandelions. The hair on my forehead was still a no go, but in other places it grew in, and other did not. I looked mangy. I looked like a drug addict whose family had kicked him out for stealing the good silverware.

She brushed my hair one night and was going to trim it and the brush got more than it left. She sighed. The realization was clear: If she wanted a boyfriend with a lot of hair she was going to have to find another one.

That was years ago, and she is, like my hair, long since gone. This morning, however, I found a hair, long, thick, and black, but it was growing out of my ear. The daily shaving and trimming of the ears missed this one, and I could have used it as a flyswatter it was so long. Why? Why is there hair growing in places I have no need for hair yet my head refuses? Worse, how long had I missed executing it, and it was waving around in public like one of those cobras charmed by a flute player?

In the end, I am of an age where people expect me to lose control of some of my grooming habits. I wear mismatched socks, but so far, not shoes. I did show up for six in the morning Pilates with my shirt inside out, but at least it wasn’t backwards. And one day I forgot my underwear and so the whole trip was wasted. You can’t hang out at the gym if you’re hanging out.

            As we age, we lose our hearing, our eyesight, our ability to bend and get up off the floor. In return we get a shiny new head, hair that grows in places it’s not needed, and stories about forgetfulness.

But we are also still alive. The teachers and cops who told me I would never survive myself are all dead now. Life, no matter what form it takes, is victory.

Take Care,

Mike