May 17, 2000

Parting ways with hairstyle hipness

By Garret Leiva
Herald editor
       Wherever I look these days, it's there, following me. Bathroom mirror. Bedroom dresser mirror. Hallway mirror. Even in the car mirror where objects are closer than they appear. There is no escaping the inevitable - I need a haircut.
      It seems no amount of hair gel, styling mousse, hair spray or 10W-40 can tame the cantankerous outgrowth of epidermis inhabiting my scalp. A bad case of bed head that refuses to awaken no matter how many cold showers. Unfortunately, my grease-stained University of South Carolina Gamecocks ball cap would not meet present workplace dress codes; even casual Fridays.
      The real root of my hair follicle predicament, however, goes deeper than part lines, cowlicks and bad hair days. Somewhere between the arrival of spring and my thirtieth birthday, I lost my hair hipness. I still have the same old hairline - including the Bela Lugosi widow's peak I inherited from my father- but my vascular papillas lack pizzazz.
      Throughout my life, each haircut, hairdo or full blown coiffure adorning my head reflected the person I was, or perceived to be, at that particular moment in time. More than mere extensions of pigmented filaments, hair became an extension of my personality.
      Elementary school pictures were matte finish testimonies of my early personalities. Hair parted in a shy, unassuming style, I was the kid destined to rest on the shag green carpet square at kindergarten nap time. The static electricity produced by this remnant did little for my hairstyle or self-confidence.
      Next came the 'helmet head' years of grade school. A variation on the Beatles mop-top and 70s Brady Bunch, my hair was an entity no hair brush or back pocket plastic comb could penetrate. You could spot me within seconds on the playground; the pudgy kid with iron-on patches on his Tuff Skins and earlobes dangling beneath the helmet of mud brown hair.
      Then puberty and junior high school collided and strange noises were emitted whenever I took up residency behind the locked bathroom door. I had discovered the world of the blow dryers, styling mousse and feathered bangs.
      Of course, getting caught dipping your fingers into your sister's 'Dipity-Do' could scar you for life, perhaps worse than shaving facial peach fuzz with a dull disposable razor and LAVA soap. No matter what the psychological or physical risks, going to school without combing your hair was like wearing a jock strap backwards during gym class - simply unimaginable, if not downright painful.
      Hair and high school were another interesting mix.
      Around ninth-grade I put away my plastic comb and to this day refuse to style my hair with anything but my phalanges. It was also around this time that I began trying on different personas: the jock, the prep, the punk - each with an accompanying flattop, Princeton, or bangs down past the chin. I went from seeing Mr. Euper, the barber to Karen, the beautician; although a part of me missed the smell of Burma Shave and stale Field and Stream magazines.
      In 1989, I began attending a small, liberal arts college near the Michigan-Ohio border. Three years later, I wore my mud brown hair pulled back in a shoulder-length ponytail. The hairstyle complemented my "young radical" motif which I accented with Seattle-based "alternative" music, deconstruction literary criticisms and a "Vote Republican ... It's easier than thinking" T-shirt.
      All the while, I'm sure my parents wondered if they could trade in my Presidential scholarship for a haircut.
      Since that time, I've chopped, bleached and buzzed my hair, but lately something seems lacking. For the past few weeks I've contemplated and crossed out a cadre of hairstyle characters: rockabilly pompadour, "Free Tibet" ponytail, spiked-hair Gen-Xer. Instead, I keep running my phalanges through the unassuming part creeping across my hairline.
      Looking in the mirror these days, especially where objects are closer than they appear, I wonder if I should invest in a comb. There are, however, worse things to lose sight of besides your earlobes.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com.