|As things stand: artist's impression|
You see, for the past year or so, as part of the overall, ongoing effort to feel Less Appalling about every single aspect of life, I've been growing it out. I figured what the hell, I'm heading toward fifty, I'm for various reasons kind of unassailable professionally, and most importantly, I've still (a centimeter or so of forehead excepted) got the stuff. So off we went.
In this part of the world, with the exception of the tighter-up Brits and Yanks who frequently populate the ranks of middle-upper management, it's actually not that big a deal. Lots of Arab men, especially those from the Gulf, have Big Hair, even if it's usually covered up with traditional headgear. This is also kind of a facial-hair-mandatory setting as well, so I've lost all reserve in that direction as well. The gentleman above will give you an idea, if you're willing to age him up, flesh him out, and throw a heaping helping of salt into that pepper.
And it's really pretty easy - the maintenance isn't all that much worse than keeping a short cut tidy, although because it tends toward the riotously curly, I've gotten cosier with a blowdryer than I've been in several decades (we didn't have one actually; I gave it a try last summer because dear Boudi came to us with one - apparently his previous people liked him with a Farrah 'do).
|On a bad day...|
Now, though, I'm afraid the Blowout has blown and it's back to curls and a certain, shameful amount of frizz, even with diligent back-combing. As a result of the recent round of socializing (one evening of which, you may recall, ended in the Great Tooth Crisis of '12), I discovered this morning that I've turned up in one of the social columns that still grace local publications. There, staring out at me from the glossy page, was a distinctly rounder, older, and more generally PaulaDeenische sort of person than I think of myself, with that kind of dazed "must you?" look one gets when faced by a strange camera. Even so: cool hair, bro.
So I really, really like having it longer, both because it annoys so many people who can do nothing about it, and because, I suppose, it recalls days of vanished youth. Like that of dear Jo March, back at the time of life when appearances matter so very, very much, my hair was my one claim to real good looks, and it took me aback, as the tendrils started to wind collarward last June, how much I'd missed it. Of course, back then it was also (often all at once) teased, sprayed, feathered, gelled (but never, I can at least attest, Jheri-ed), waxed, and more often than not at least two unnatural colors. It's kind of restful, comparatively, to have it just be longer.
So what do you think? Do I continue down the road of further growth, heading toward Anglo-Fro territory, the possibility of Olde Boho Pony Tail, or worse? Do I just get over my cheap self, cut it all off, and return to Corporate Clean Cut? Or do I find some soft-focus rocks and an Indigo Land's End Button Tee, go back to Blowout Boy for a trim, and see how it all works out?