Ever notice how pre-occupied many of us are by hair? Is it…
Too much?
Too flat?
Too thin?
Too grey?
Too gone?
Judging from the ads on television, hair products rank only slightly below beer commercials in advertising significance.
Further interesting point: I put it to you that men are far more obsessed about their hair than women are.
It appears the true measure of a man’s worth may not be his character, his accomplishments, his generosity, his contributions to society. No, according to popular culture, it’s whether or not he has a bald patch at the back of his skull.
Talk about a neurosis!
“I just couldn’t face the world hairless,” an earnest looking man tells the television camera. “I looked old. I looked fat. I had no energy. I lost my job. My wife moved out. The kids cut me out of family photos. The dog ignored me. Birds mistook my skull for a large egg. And why did all this happen?
Because I stopped growing hair!”
To relocate his inner macho, there is apparently only one thing any true (thinning) man can do: he must join a Hair Club.
Now I don’t know about you, but when it comes to choosing a club to join, Gardening, Flying, Racing, Book, Railway all seem like possibilities.
Not Hair.
Seriously, when I think of a Hair Club For Men, I can’t help but visualize a group of guys, mostly middle-aged, pleated pants, sitting around a table saying things like “Yup, I remember the Great Frizzy of ‘65. We lost a lot of good old boys in that one.”
“And what about the Limp and Greasy Disaster of ‘06? Ernie and Mac vanished that month.”
I visualize knuckles whitening and lips tightening on those solemn occasions when someone in the Club finally broaches the worst event of all – the infamous Day of the Fallout.
Why, there are bald men of my acquaintance who still cannot refer to that experience except in hushed tones.
Men appear conditioned to see hair as some sort of visual affirmation of their manhood, their machismo, their mojo. We women, on the other hand, tend to regard it as nothing more than another fun experiment.
Let’s face it, we’ve been trying things with our hair since our mothers stuck that first My Little Pony barrette on to our bowl cut.
(Those of you slightly older might recall the experience of having your hair tied up in rags night after night to achieve those Shirley Temple curls.)
History makes my point.
We women have cheerfully let our hair grow down to our knees (the Flower Child) or buzzed it so short we were welcomed at US Marine bars.
We’ve had live birds in cages tucked into rigid, powdered updos (hello, Marie Antoinette); we’ve bobbed, clipped, shellacked, shingled, teased, back combed and razored our hair.
We’ve actually gone to bed (sometimes for years) in bristled wire brush rollers!
And there are those of us who proudly state that they survived the BIG HAIR of the 80s. (Hair spray, any one?)
Women also approach colour as an adventure. (Okay, the one time fad for using bingo markers to touch up roots and bangs should probably best be forgotten)
Just consider the options for hair colour out there!
Who wouldn’t be thrilled to try dyes marked Breathless Blonde Bombshell or Luscious Cherry Blaze? I mean there’s “Brown” if you want it, but you’ve got to admit that Untamed Ebony Madness has more zing.
Granted, sometimes mistakes are made.
I did spend some unfortunate weeks with a perm, which, when blown dry, made it necessary for me to go through most doors side ways. I must also admit, upon reflection, that selecting Fire Hydrant Flare as the colour for that perm may have been a questionable choice.
Still, admit it, men! While you fret and stew and comb over those six lone grey hairs in an attempt to preserve your macho image, women have fun with their hair.
Isn’t there really much, much more to you as a man than whether or not you have hair?
Of course there is.
Now about wool socks with sandals and the pleated pants….
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