Hairstyles for a young man
Even before I was born, my father was already enthusiastic and conscientious about his forthcoming role as a parent. Without benefit of ultrasound imaging, he pressed his intuition to the limit and ascertained that I would be a boy. With amazing foresight, he also pictured exactly what I would look like as a child. Armed with this knowledge, he toured the galleries until he found a portrait of me, and he bought it.
When I came into the world, the prospects were not good that I would ever become as handsome as the boy in the portrait. For starters, I seemed to be cross-eyed, and my left foot was deformed to the extent that, as an infant, I often fell and then had to learn to walk all over again.
As the first few years went by, I quickly came to understand that this portrait represented what was a major expectation of me. But I also realized that I didn’t have the features needed to match it. In compensation, the one thing I could do was to accept the hairstyle. And so I did.
This worked well until I reached the age of about five. My whole family enjoyed my long hairstyle, and my father was well pleased with me, and terribly proud of me, for which he claimed many reasons beyond the hairstyle itself.
Then, the day came when I started Sunday school. Next to me sat a sweet little girl, who kept studying me closely. Finally, she asked the big question: “Are you a boy or a girl?” I appeared to ignore her, never answering her question, even though she repeated it a couple of times. I was both mortified and furious. Fortunately, I had been taught never to hit a girl. So I stored the fury away until I got home, and then I let it out on the family. I had to have a proper haircut. Immediately.
The clippers, comb, and scissors came out quickly, wielded by my aunt, whom I called Ann, a person of 1906 vintage whom I loved as if she were the favorite sister I never had. Soon the problem was solved, and I had a hairstyle worthy of a rising young man of the early 1930s.
But Ann then informed me that this hairstyle carried with it certain responsibilities. The hair had to be “trained” so that it would lie flat on the head. Bushy, spiky manes were not in style that year. Also, I had to select a place for the part (the line from which the hair departed in opposite directions) – left, middle, or right side of the head. And the hair had to learn to revert to that part no matter how much it was tousled.
Training was a bedtime operation requiring the use of hairbrush, comb, a strange liquid known as brilliantine, and a skullcap made from a woman’s stocking.
First, the hair was thoroughly soaked in brilliantine. This thick, green liquid apparently consisted of very long molecules, evidenced by its property of pulling back into the bottle any stream of the liquid that was hanging outside when the pouring was finished. These molecules did an excellent job of binding the hair together in a rigid mass. When they dried out, the hair was as stiff as if it had been run through starch in the laundry.
After careful and thorough brushing while still wet, the hair was touched up with a comb, primarily to make sure that the part was straight and sharp. And the tightly fitting stocking cap was then applied to make sure that nothing moved during the night. Next morning, the cap was removed and the hair combed out to face yet another rough-and-tumble day without being mussed up the slightest bit. I’m not sure how long the training took; maybe a month.
At last, I had achieved a hairstyle that would last a lifetime. In the next few years, I would see men with long hair, but they were artists in Greenwich Village, and they really didn’t matter. It was more than twenty years before I saw any real threat to my style, first by the ducktails and then by the incredibly long tresses of the rock-and-rollers. But by then I had become a stubborn old cuss with no intention of changing. And so I’ve remained till the age of 86, and am still counting. It seems that I inherited some very stubborn genes, but not to worry – it’s clear that I passed them on intact to the next generation. They, too, would have hairstyle issues, but mostly in a sequence the reverse of mine.
This posting is published in my book, Once Upon a Blog (Kindle and Paperback)