Don't Look Up

Growing up in my Eastern-European Jewish family, I was the son with the "good hair," thick and wavy like my mother's. While my two brothers had straight, thin hair, I had a virtual helmet of red-blond locks with a mind of its own. And that hair grew like an invasive plant. It seemed that I had too much of a good thing, with a mind of its own and an unwillingness to conform to the latest fashion trends.

Still, I tried to look "cool," though as a boy and a young man I was decidedly not. As a young boy, I went to Herman's Barbershop in nearby University Heights where the owner, an older man with a brown combover and unplaceable European accent chopped off most of my hair, leaving a bit in front, a modified crewcut called the "Princeton." Herman's was a gathering place for older men in our 'hood, a sort of Jewish shtetl filled with the children of immigrants, most of whom had the wisdom or good fortune to leave Europe before the war.

At 8 or 9, I knew nothing of the Ivy League and that bastion of preppy-ness, and just wanted to fit in with other boys. Years and decades passed and my hair reflected the era I was living in, though I was usually 5–10 years behind the latest trends. (I have a similar relationship with technology: I was just getting into CDs, when other folks were streaming MP3s on their iPods). A case in point – I come across a picture from my prom, June 1975. I stand with my white tux, pink (ugh) shirt, and almost shoulder length hair, the back and sides splaying out in all directions. I look androgynous, half-boy/half-girl, standing next to the real girl beside me.

In the early '80s, I decided to get a perm. I was envious of my friends who had naturally curly hair and thought I could change my image for the better. I ended up spending two hours at my mother's beauty shop in suburban Cleveland, sitting under a hair dryer as a foul-smelling concoction turned me into a younger version of Bert Convy, the B-grade actor and game show host.

By the mid '90s, I'd settled into a more conservative short hairstyle that seemed to fit my thirty-something status along with a neat goatee, a reasonable look for the 'out' gay man I'd become. It was in the late '90s, when a small bald spot appeared at the crown of my head; an old friend pointed out what I had been missing. At the time, I shrugged it off; I had plenty of hair around that small spot, and since I was 6'1", few people noticed it. And when my goatee began to go from pepper to white, I simply shaved it off.

Fast-forward 25 years and my secret has been exposed; the jig is up. Today, at 65, I walk into my gym and notice the closed-circuit TV that tracks my entrance into the locker room. Looking up, I see a large oval of bare scalp, a yarmulke-sized spot that radiates from my crown. I try to pretend that this is NOT me, but denial no longer works when the evidence is right in front, or in this case above me.

Eventually, the spot will merge with my high forehead and defeat my best efforts at my version of a combover. In the meantime, I pull myself up to my full height and remind myself to look straight ahead, to avoid the TV monitor and overhead mirrors that reflect my current reality and the state of my hair today.

Growing up in my Eastern-European Jewish family, I was the son with the "good hair," thick and wavy like my mother's. While my two brothers had straight, thin hair, I had a virtual helmet of red-blond locks with a mind of its own. And that hair grew like an invasive plant. It seemed that I had too much of a good thing, with a mind of its own and an unwillingness to conform to the latest fashion trends.

Still, I tried to look "cool," though as a boy and a young man I was decidedly not. As a young boy, I went to Herman's Barbershop in nearby University Heights where the owner, an older man with a brown combover and unplaceable European accent chopped off most of my hair, leaving a bit in front, a modified crewcut called the "Princeton." Herman's was a gathering place for older men in our 'hood, a sort of Jewish shtetl filled with the children of immigrants, most of whom had the wisdom or good fortune to leave Europe before the war.

At 8 or 9, I knew nothing of the Ivy League and that bastion of preppy-ness, and just wanted to fit in with other boys. Years and decades passed and my hair reflected the era I was living in, though I was usually 5–10 years behind the latest trends. (I have a similar relationship with technology: I was just getting into CDs, when other folks were streaming MP3s on their iPods). A case in point – I come across a picture from my prom, June 1975. I stand with my white tux, pink (ugh) shirt, and almost shoulder length hair, the back and sides splaying out in all directions. I look androgynous, half-boy/half-girl, standing next to the real girl beside me.

In the early '80s, I decided to get a perm. I was envious of my friends who had naturally curly hair and thought I could change my image for the better. I ended up spending two hours at my mother's beauty shop in suburban Cleveland, sitting under a hair dryer as a foul-smelling concoction turned me into a younger version of Bert Convy, the B-grade actor and game show host.

By the mid '90s, I'd settled into a more conservative short hairstyle that seemed to fit my thirty-something status along with a neat goatee, a reasonable look for the 'out' gay man I'd become. It was in the late '90s, when a small bald spot appeared at the crown of my head; an old friend pointed out what I had been missing. At the time, I shrugged it off; I had plenty of hair around that small spot, and since I was 6'1", few people noticed it. And when my goatee began to go from pepper to white, I simply shaved it off.

Fast-forward 25 years and my secret has been exposed; the jig is up. Today, at 65, I walk into my gym and notice the closed-circuit TV that tracks my entrance into the locker room. Looking up, I see a large oval of bare scalp, a yarmulke-sized spot that radiates from my crown. I try to pretend that this is NOT me, but denial no longer works when the evidence is right in front, or in this case above me.

Eventually, the spot will merge with my high forehead and defeat my best efforts at my version of a combover. In the meantime, I pull myself up to my full height and remind myself to look straight ahead, to avoid the TV monitor and overhead mirrors that reflect my current reality and the state of my hair today.