Most body features change over time.These changes can have an impact on how we live our lives.

 

At times, the unexpected can occur. This is the case in . . .

 

 

Hair Apparent

 

     You wonder if you might inherit something during your lifetime. However, if you do, it may not be what you hoped for. A strange “inhairitance” may become yours when you least expect it.

     I grew up in New York and was close to my extended family. On my father’s side, no one was in need of hair. Curley locks flowed. And family members had plenty of facial and body hair, as well. When I was about eight, my dad looked at me and said, “Alan, you need to get a haircut this weekend.”

     “Every two weeks,” I moaned.

     “If you think that’s bad now. Wait until you have to shave every day.”

     “I wish I was a girl!” I screamed.

     “He looked me in the eyes and said, “You know, if your grandmother had a mustache, she’d be your grandfather.”

     I stared at him, with a strange look on my face, and muttered, “But she does have a mustache.”

     The next significant hairy experience in my life occurred when I was twelve. Saturday morning, my father came into my bedroom and said, “It’s time.”

     “Time? Time for what?” I asked.

     “Your haircut. You’ve been putting it off long enough. It’s growing over your ears.”

     As an almost teenager, I dreaded this moment. My long hair didn’t bother me and I hated sitting in the chair as the barber snipped away at my mane, my hair flying everywhere and going into my shirt collar and down my neck and back. It itched like hell.

     However, it was not my choice to make. Dad handed me a $1.25 and said, “Thank heaven, you still qualify for the children’s haircut.”

     I stuffed the money into my pocket, left the house, and walked the three blocks to the barbershop. When I entered, there was one barber who didn’t have a client. I’d never seen him before. He just stood by his chair looking off into space.

     “Sir,” I said. “I’d like a children’s haircut.”

     He turned and looked at me and started laughing. “A children’s haircut? You’ve gotta be kidding,” he said.

     “But I’m only twelve,” I pleaded.

     “Yeah, right. With all that facial hair you gotta be at least fifteen. Thirteen is the limit for a child’s haircut.”

     “But, I am . . .”

     “Then show me your birth certificate,” he snarled.

     Just as I thought I was going to take off running out of the shop, the owner, whom I’d known for years came through the front door. I breathed a sigh of relief and got a children’s haircut.

     My hairy life didn’t get any better as I got older. Now I was in the eleventh grade. I was running late getting ready for school and didn’t shave. As I entered my chemistry class, Mr. V took one look at me, pulled a razor from the drawer in his desk, and said, “Young man, we’ll welcome you back when you’ve cleaned up your face.”

     As I exited the classroom, with head bowed, I felt like I’d been charged with a crime. And the laughter coming from the other students was overwhelming.

     In 1970, at the age of 26, I grew a “circle beard,” a type of goatee. I was proud of what I’d done and held my head high. What I didn’t expect is that back then people didn’t always see guys with beards as trustworthy. Now living in California, I walked into a small clothing store in Los Angeles. A female salesperson perused me in a manner that made my skin crawl. She followed me around the store, making sure everything I picked up I put back, and then counted every item I took into the dressing room to try on, counting them again when I checked out and left the store. After this experience, I avoided tiny clothing shops for a long time.

     I started teaching in 1969, while working on my doctorate at UCLA. At Moorpark College, where I taught, my beard seemed to be acceptable. In 1971, I completed my doctoral dissertation, had it typed by a professional, and made copies on a brand new Xerox machine at the college. It looked great. I did all this to impress the librarian who had to approve my dissertation for publication and placement on a shelf in the UCLA library.

     Everything was ready to go, and then a fellow doctoral student told me that he’d heard that Mrs. Welch, the librarian, was very conservative and my beard could cause her not to accept my dissertation for publication. Not wanting this to happen, I shaved my beard off.

     The day arrived and I entered the room in the library where my creation would be scrutinized. I stood in a long line with others hoping for approval and waited my turn, and then slid my dissertation down the table to Mrs. Welch. I awaited her words of acceptance, when she looked at the clean-shaven young man standing before her.

     As she turned the pages, what I heard made me feel good. “This is fantastic, so well done, everything is in the right place. This meets my expectations. Approved!” she stated, and moved on to the next thesis. To my surprise, she never lifted her head to look at me.

     That weekend I went to visit my parents, in Orange County, to share my good news. I thought my mother would be ecstatic about my accomplishment, but even more excited when she saw her clean-shaven son, as she’d been telling me for months I needed to lose the beard. I knocked on the door. It opened. Mom took one look at me cried out, “Grow it back!”  And I did.

     Over forty years passed and my beard remained an important part of who I was. However, both my son and daughter had never seen me without it. My son longed to know what I’d look like if it was gone. So, as a computer professional, he photoshopped my picture and sent it to me. I gasped when I saw it. My face was naked and I had the widest chin I’d ever seen.

     In 2018, retired for ten years, I felt it was time to see if I could grow a long full beard. To my surprise, I did. What amazed me was that I began to make new friends—people who’d never paid attention to me before—homeless men, tattooed men and women, guys with ponytails and braids, and those with beards longer than mine.

     My wife and I went to Oregon that summer and the tire of our Nissan Murano went flat outside the office of the motel where we were staying. I called AAA and within minutes “my best friend” arrived. He had a short beard and long ponytail and more tats than I could count.

     He said, “Let’s get the car up on my truck and I’ll take you to the tire shop where they’ll fix it.” After the car was loaded, he ushered me into the front passenger seat, and stated, “We’re going to take the scenic route, so I can show you where I’m taking my wife on our anniversary.”

     We talked about everything under the sun until we arrived at the shop—almost twenty-five minutes later. He stayed with me until he was sure my tire would be repaired. Then he shook my hand and said, “To get back to the motel, make a left when you leave the parking lot, then a right at the light, and a left at the stop sign. It should take you about five minutes.” I stood there stunned, as he got into his truck and drove off.

     In November of 2022, I decided it was time to become my old self again, so I clipped my beard—full but short—“hair apparent.” Those new friends haven’t approached me anymore, but the old ones remain, with praise— telling me how good I look.

 

 

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