Hey, Old Friends.. (and One New, Too)

I had a nice long stroll around Our Nation's Capital yesterday, and I grabbed the opportunity to drop into the National Portrait Gallery and pay my respects to some old familiar faces.

Mystic Crystal Revelation

For reasons that will shortly become clear, I've been thinking about Hair, the 1979 film of which has to me always seemed too-little-shouted-about.

Having a Moment...

...Greta Gustaffson style.  I love this shot; I don't think I've ever seen her looking so peeved.

Random Sunday Thoughts

What's on my mind?  Well you may ask.  You might be surprised to know that it's not (primarily) the gentleman on the right...

Do, Do That Voodoo

Just 51 years ago today, none other than Gloria Vanderbilt DiCicco Stokowski Lumet Cooper (who had by 1962 gotten only as far as Lumet) modeled what's described as the new Marienbad (as in Last Year in...) hairdo.

It strikes me as an unlikely movie product placement, but then LYiM isn't exactly the world's most market-driven picture.  It also strikes me that my own hair is now something on the order of twice as long as Gloria Vanderbilt's.  For some reason, that amuses me immensely...

My Little Pony[tail]

Another famed ponytailer, by illustrator Lisa Zador

Remember my hair?  No reason you should, really, but like it or not it has once more turned into a front-burner issue in what passes for my life.

As you may or may not remember, it's been getting longer.  And longer.  And mostly, I think, that's very good thing, as I it's still reasonably thick, has struck what seems a workable balance between salt and pepper, has a nice natural curl, and isn't receding as much as it really ought to be on a gentleman who is hurtling toward his sixth decade on this green earth (I'm sporting a great deal less forehead, for example, than Nicole Kidman - and I can still frown, for what that's worth).

But it's been nearly a year since I first thought seriously about such a weighty subject, and aside from a quick trim in Provincetown last summer, it's continued to grow. And grow.

And so, I've crossed a follicular Rubicon:  I've started wearing a ponytail.  Not all the time, but mostly on weekends and when I need it out of the way.  Tonight, though, the New Look made its debut at a formal event.  This time of year, you see, when for a very little while the Sandlands are blessedly cool, a great many parties are held outside, which is mostly a joy.   The combination of  perfect temperatures, lovely sunsets over the sea, and a little something pleasant to eat and (most of the time) drink can lend a certain charm to even the dreariest office party.  However, these sundowners are also often accompanied by a fierce breeze, and by the end of one such outing last week, I more or less resembled Bridget Jones the time she went for an incautious ride in a convertible. So, over the weekend, I took the fateful step of upgrading from found rubber bands to hairties bought at the grocery store, brushed the hair back and tied it neatly up, put on my suit, and went to the office party.

It was, I think, rather a success.  Certainly it was from a practical standpoint, for despite near gale force winds, I ended the evening as tidily as I began it.  Those who commented did so favorably, and not all who commented depend on my good opinion for their bread and butter.  it's pulled straight back, but not so tightly as to seem desperate, and the tail itself curls nicely under.  I really think the effect is rather nice - less either the icon seen above or (worse) Jean-Claude Van Damme, and more an eighteenth-century gentleman sort of thing.  I'd like to think it was a shade Banderas-esque, but I'm not that vain (although one person did raise the idea of Russell Crowe, which isn't wholly unpleasing as a comparator).  It's certainly simple, compared to blowing it all out every day, and who doesn't need an extra 20 minutes in the morning?

In any case, I think I'm going to give it a whirl.  What do you think of men with ponytails  (bronytails?)?  Is it aesthetically defensible, or am I fated to look like Karl Lagerfeld or worse? 

Birthday Boy: The American Olivier

Kevin Kline, having survived a stint with Miss Patti LuPuone and more than two decades as Mr. Phoebe Cates, appears, alas, not to be (as Frank Rich dubbed him) "the American Olivier" when it comes to a shall-we-say fluid private life.  Pity, given how promising this very mid-eighties lavender ensemble would seem to be.  Whatever the reality, he's long had a piece of my fantasy-heart, whether in modes heartbreaking (Sophie's Choice) or immortally ridiculous (A Fish Called Wanda).

It's hard to credit that he's 65 today, but many happy returns all the same.

Oh, and remember my ongoing follicular crisis?  At the moment, this is more or less the overall effect I'm rocking, grooming-wise.  I only wish the general effect were even fractionally as successful...

Hair Trigger

Well, as you might have noticed, hair has been rather on my mind of late.  In my last installment, I noted a rather spectacular hairtastrophe, and dear Bill chimed in, as is his delightful wont - in this case, with a demand for pictures of said coiffure difficulties.

I'm a rather shy (not to mention visually unedifying) sort, and I really don't think, on the whole, much of a spectacle to be relished.  It's in that spirit, then, that I present the above (and not, heaven forfend, for any carnal or lascivious purpose - oh, no, not me).  This gentleman, it seems, is one Mr. Amr Samaha, and among his many distinguishing features is the fun fact that he was Mr. Egypt International 2007.  Now this is apparently, I'm learning, a different Mr. Egypt than the title that for a while adorned Café favorite Mr. Tarek Naguib.  Still, it's clearly one that has no trouble attracting high-class talent on its own merits, dont' you think?  Sadly, Amr's career, at least in English, is rather underdocumented, and as I don't know the Arabic for "handsomeness pageant," I'm out of luck in trying to discover what he's been up to these past few years.

He appears here for the simple reason that he is, more or less, sporting exactly my current 'do (when it's not in disaster mode, at least).  If I'm not showing it off to entirely the same advantage, this will give you an general idea of how it looks, at least from the ears or so up.  My version, I do admit, features a fair amount more salt among all that pepper, but texture- and length-wise (of the hair, darlings - do get your minds out of the gutter) we're as it were kindred spirits.

Have I mentioned lately just how much I miss Egypt?

Hair Raising

4:45 p.m.: a horrifying discovery

So: although this is very much our local weekend, I found myself, at an unaccustomed mid-afternoon hour today, having to get myself dolled up (to the extent that one does) for an Important Office Do. 

Earlier, Mr. Muscato and I had been lazing about the Villa Muscato, playing with the dogs, enjoying the last fragments of the pre-inferno weather, as is appropriate for a weekend morning, before bestirring ourselves to actually get a little shopping done so that we don't either starve this coming week or rely entirely on the questionable mercies of the local delivery-industrial complex (which leans heavily toward heavy Lebanese, heavier Indian, inedible pizza, and the regrettable messes that pass for Chinese in these parts). 

We also squeezed in a quick lunch at a very swish new Italian gourmanderie not too far from the house, meeting up there with our pal The Bodybuilder (a physical-wellness professional and general eyeful), who predictably asked for a plain chicken breast, steamed, please, while we piled our trays (it's a sort of haute-cafeteria, as it turns out) with mozzarella salads, antipasti, lasagna, and heavenly calzones. Oh, and cheesecake, which came with a side of biscotti.  It's a pretty impressive hangout, actually, and we'll likely double our body mass by June at this rate.

In any case, all this took some time, not least because the BB had some choice local gossip, and so I had to hurry rather more than I like to get dressed for Tea with the Clients.  The location in which we were entertaining these out-of-towners was a Very Distinguished Residence (whose Resident actually spells it with a capital "R") we obtained for the afternoon by pulling in an alarming number of chips from hither and yon.  In any case, it was distinctly, at least for the time of day, a Hightum sort of affair, and so I really did have some dressing to do.

Which leads us, distressingly, to the photo above; she is, of course, the third Mrs.Gingrich, the effervescent Callista Lou (at whose photos I look and think to myself "she's years younger than you," which is true).

So - I was in a hurry.  Rushing suits no toilette, and least of all mine.  Perhaps it was just that I'm used to dressing either early in the morning or later in the evening.  Perhaps I was just a tad heavy-handed on the product, or uncautious with the blow-dryer, or both.  Perhaps it's all just the evil hand of fate.  Whatever it was, having showered I did my usual routine, threw on a dashing weekend-y sort of afternoon costume (blazer, pale blue shirt, rather bright tie to look devil-may-care) and ran down the stairs.  There, between the stairs and the front door, is a large mirror.  Turning to leave, I saw reflected therein a shocking vision:  something, something - humidity, haste, I know not what - had conspired against me, for looking back was a rather startlingly convincing salt-and-pepper reinterpretation of the trademark Callista helmet, complete with the tendril that the formidable Peteykins (aka Princess Sparklepony) once hypothesized might be prehensile.

It was alarming.

But I was late.  The product betrayal (for such I think it was) was fierce - it was all I could do to try and break up some of the stiffness before I simply had to go, and after which spend two hours standing around looking, I fear, like an oddly butch discarded political first wife.

Now it's hours (and several cocktails) later, and while padding about the house I caught another glimpse in that infernal mirror.  At first, I sighed with relief, for the Callista-do has relaxed significantly and I almost, again, resembled a human being.

8:45 p.m.:  less rigid, but not, noticeably, an improvement

My relief was short-lived, for on the next pass past the glass (and try saying that ten times fast), I discovered that, while I was now delivered of political spouse-resemblance, I was apparently (and wholly unknowingly) calling up the spirit of Seventies Jesus. It's a very specific era and look, mind you - not Hippy Jesus at all, but rather one fit for a (portly) Nazarene who might be at home at a fern bar, or working backstage on Merv, or attending an EST meeting (or all three at once).

Clearly, it's time to get the hair cut.  If I'm not careful, at the next wrong turn, I'll end up with Barry-Gibb-on-Barbra's-Guilty-LP-cover, and however fetching he was, I just don't think a case can be made for that in 2012 - not, at least, on a round gent who actually remembers Guilty when it was new.

Hair Today

As things stand: artist's impression

Maybe it's just the influence of that last post, but I need to talk to you about my hair. I think it's getting out of control.

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...

It's currently of a length somewhere between Slavic Baritone and mid-career Mary Astor (albeit with a fair bit more at the back). Last December, without warning, a demon stylist administered something I only later through diligent Googling discovered was a Brazilian Blowout (which is a whole lot less porny than it sounds, even when given to one by a lithe Lebanese hairdresser), and so for a couple of months it was straight (unlike the hairdresser) and limp (a greater resemblance). In fact, for one brief, shining night, I achieved - albeit 35 years after the fact - the state of grace I had once upon a time so longed for: Perfect David Cassidy Hair.

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.

A compromise?

I'm wondering if perhaps Stock Photo Daddy here isn't a possible way forward. The resemblance is actually rather strong, although his brows are a little more roguish than mine, and I'm not sure (especially given the evidence in this week's going-out mag) my Gaze of Quiet Self Confidence is quite as assured.

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?