I’m hair intolerant. It’s genetic. From my mother’s side of the family. We don’t handle unruly hair.
My hair intolerance came late in life. It’s not that it wasn’t
there, but I fought it. I tried to be strong.
I made it through the big, poufy, mega-permed ‘80s and early
‘90s with barely a tic. When I saw Melanie Griffith and Joan Cusack in “Working
Girl”, it registered that their coiffures needed taming, but I didn’t respond
like it was a horror movie, clenching the armrests and casting my eyes downward
to see if popcorn-fed rats lurked at my feet. I watched and told myself movies
are make believe and New Jersey is on the other coast. (Admittedly, I may have
had my own case of poufy hair, a circumstance that was entirely perm-free.)
I only registered mild annoyance after moving to L.A. twenty-five
years ago and seeing middle-aged men deal with receding hairlines by growing it
where they could—extending the neckline, clumping it together in a ponytail.
Not braided like Willie Nelson. Too much work. This was California casual. On
occasion, I wanted to shake these guys and shout, “Your hair’s still receding.
We still see that.” But I took my deep breaths, I let that Bobby McFerrin ditty dance in my head and I did some mental “Vogue”-ing. I worked through
it.
I thought I made it.
I am not my mother’s son!
Then came the mullet. It proved a greater challenge. I could
hear my grandfather in my head. Needs a
haircut. Very succinct. He was a keen observer, always wanting to keep the
younger generations in check. His tone conveyed more: Thugs and no-goods. A barber would fix ‘em. I believe that was my
grandfather’s answer to all the evils of the world. Forget prisons; we need
more barbers.
My mother learned well from my grandfather who,
incidentally, went bald at the age of twenty. But she was always more verbose.
I shudder to think what her commentary would be if she watched an old Michael
Bolton video with me. “Where are my scissors? Honestly, what was he thinking? ‘Love
Is a Wonderful Thing’? I’ll tell you what’s a wonderful thing. A haircut. Once
a month. Five weeks at most. Just look at that mop. It’s like a lion’s mane. I’ll
tame it. Clean, crisp snips. And there’d be three new wigs for cancer patients.
Although Genie Mulgrove has a stylish collection of bandanas to make the most
of things. Satin. Some of them are even from Neiman Marcus. But when you’ve got
cancer, you need your splurges.”
It was a struggle, but I made it through mullets, too. “Hockey
hair”, they called it. That helped. I accepted it in the name of national pride.
Hockey. Canada. Suck it up.
But I’ve come undone due to the latest hair misstep. I hear
my grandfather’s voice saying, Needs a
haircut. I hear my mother rambling about her scissors. And even more
succinctly than my grandfather, I pose the question: “Why?”
“Why, oh, why, oh, why why why?!” Okay, not so succinctly. I
see the redundancy in my thinking but I can’t help myself. I can’t lop off even
a single “why”. I. Am. Hair. Intolerant.
Why?!
I suspect someone like David Beckham started this. Some sort
of soccer requirement. Clump up that loose tuft of hair at the top of the head
in case some gust of wind kicks up in the stadium and he gets a red card for
giving an opposing player an unwanted hair whipping. But, men, we need
to get real. David Beckham can carry off almost anything. He’d be hot in a squirrel costume. We are not David Beckham. We cannot carry off the ponytail stump.
We should know this. As boys, we were told not to play with
rubber bands. Clearly, some boys weren’t so compliant. Or perhaps they were and
now they are demonstrating a latent need to experiment with elastics.
Please.
This will not hold up well in one’s personal history. Like
crocs and pants that sag down to the knees. I am certain of this. And there
will be oodles of incriminating evidence in the form of Instagram and Facebook
selfies.
I can hear the children of these men, years from now,
looking at pictures of their dads when they actually had hair. But that relatively
full head of hear won’t be something the young‘uns marvel at because there will
be that overriding distraction. “Uh, dad, why is your hair sticking up at the
back in every picture?”
“I meant to do that. It was the fashion.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“It was.” And, god willing, I’ll be there to chime in and
say, in a cathartic release, “It wasn’t! It really wasn’t!”
So please, gentlemen, put the rubber bands down. Tame your
hair with gobs of goop if you must. It is time to clip the ponytail stump.
If you don’t do it, I may just have to pull out my mother’s
scissors. I’m not afraid to use them. My ancestors will cheer me on.
2 comments:
There is a clear differentiation between a manbun and someone trying to clump their hair together when clearly it's not all possible.
As someone who has been sporting a manbun for 2 years now I have something to say about it. It's become a fad, and I was doing it way before it became somewhat fringe-popularity. The catalyst for me growing my hair was the desire to put my hair to good use and grow it long enough to donate to someone who needs it. After all, if I'm just cutting it off short it doesn't have much purpose.
For me it has nothing to do with fashion or being "hip." It's a choice that's very out there in some cultures, but in the end I don't care if people like it or not. I'm not doing it to be shocking or to start a revolution; I'm doing it because it's for a good cause and can help someone.
Keep in mind that some people don't care so much about appearances, and the more people judge each other, the larger impact it will have on societies as a whole.
Why call it a 'manbun' to begin with? It's just a bun.
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