Investment Professional
As difficult as it is to admit, I am in the September of my years. It’s not the end of the month or the middle; it’s more like the Labor Day Weekend. But it is here. And this is as good a time as any to address an important part of my life: my hair. (Note to editor: no quotation marks around part, please)
I had great hair as a kid. In the endless summers of youth, my light brown hair turned even lighter with all the sun I consumed by being outside for hours and hours. My mother once told me if summer lasted one more month, I would end up with blonde hair.
My teenage years were another matter. My hair grew out sideways and not straight. The night before the ninth-grade yearbook photo was to be taken, my mother commented that she didn’t want my photo taken with my hair looking the way it did. My father cut the hair of my two brothers and me on occasion and this was one of the occasions he chose to give me a trim. I’m sure my mother would have prevented him from doing so if she knew exactly how many Old Milwaukees he drank before taking scissors to her middle son. It wasn’t the picture with the semi-bowl cut I remember; it’s the nickname Coach Thompson gave me. “Pigman.” It’s wrong when a teacher and athletic coach provides mean-spirited nicknames for the students. That’s the job of the other students.
There was a thankfully short period of time when I adopted the part down the middle style. Because my hair didn’t grow straight, this didn’t look so good. I refer to this as my “stoner” period.
Things started happening when the “straight back” style was adopted. My hair had the perfect length and curl for this look. Many compliments, and some girlfriends, came my way. Some thought I adopted this style because I wanted to appear tougher than I was. The simple truth is that I suffered from the scourge of youth—acne—and my blotchy face, coupled with my broken nose from tenth-grade football, made it difficult for me to look in mirrors. I wanted a style that required a minimum amount of time looking at myself. The James Dean-inspired “do” served the purpose.
As I was finishing my business studies in college, I needed a more respectable cut. The band Duran Duran was hot at the time. The lead singer, Simon LeBon, had cool hair. Long on the sides with a part left of center. I copied it the best I could and it worked. One of the few photographs of myself that I like is my college yearbook photo.
Once out of college and some years in my profession, I was able to go to the straight back style. I took this style in high school to avoid looking at my acne. I “readopted” it because I didn’t like looking at the uninvited grey hair—not quite gray and not quite white—that had crashed the party and took up residence on the sides of my head.
One of my friends once said, “Every five years or so Mother Nature gives you a new hairstyle –whether you want one or not.” My last new hairstyle was a combination George Clooney/Steve McQueen cut. It worked well–for five years. It may be time for a change soon.
What’s the future hold for me and my hair? More recession? A bigger forehead? A bald spot? The “Mel Cooley” look? (younger readers may have to Google that one). Will the uninvited grey take over the whole neighborhood?
I’ve lost the thickness and curl that caught much female attention over the years. That’s the bad news. The good news: the top-secret treatment I now use to diffuse the chlorine my hair is exposed to in the YMCA pool five times per week seems to be working. I would share the secret here but then it would no longer be top secret.
It is a good thing I never relied on my physical appearance to get by in this life. I obtained an education above my level of intelligence and I developed unique outside interests. I traveled. I explored. I created. I paid as much attention to keeping my body in shape as I did expand my mind. And I gained experiences, insights, and abilities I never imagined I would possess when I—and my hair–were much younger.
One of those abilities—the ability to write—is a skill not to be traded for anything—even for a Simon LeBon haircut.