The Baldie's BACK

Last night I got out the clippers and, as I’ve done on a weekly basis for several months now, I buzzed my hair down to “zero,” which refers to the metal teeth of the clippers, without any attachment (they go from 1 to five, if I’m not mistaken).

But I didn’t stop there; I picked up the shaving soap, got the water hot and lathered up my scalp as best I could. Then I put a fresh blade on my razor and shaved off any remaining hair, as if I were preparing myself for brain surgery.

Last Tuesday, upon my return from New York, one of my first acts of personal care was to shave off my beard and “soul patch” under my lower lip. Now I’ve shaved my head, so that the only hair readily visible to my admiring public is my eyebrows and eyelashes.

Interestingly, there are no gray hairs left on my head or face. I’m thinking maybe that was what this shearing was all about. My official story is that this is my “summer cut,” and the truth is my head is a lot cooler now. (And it’s good to have a cool head.) Truth be told, I miss the hair I had as a younger man. I’m saddened by the realization that I can’t grow it anymore. So, I’ll keep it bald instead. The last time I had a baldie was right around the time Jackson was born, back in 2005 or so. I enjoyed it, but the maintenance got on my nerves. Shaving my face every couple of days is enough of a pain; the whole head was a tedium that got to me in the end. But I’ll try it again, at least for the summer, and see how it goes.

As a consolation, I think of a mind game that Susan Dreyer Leon taught me, and that I used to play with my students when they had the hiccups. “Close your eyes and think of three bald-headed men,” I’d say. (Personally, I always imagine Patrick Stewart, Michael Jordan and Kojak.) The idea is that while your mind is distracted, trying to pull up the images of three bald men, your breathing relaxes, and no more hiccups. Try it next time. It works . . . sometimes.

Anyway, I’m happy to know that I can now be part of the cure for hiccups.

The Whole Facial Hair Thing

Things change when you grow your beard. People treat you differently. They look at you as if they owe you money, as if they need to keep their backs to the wall and their eyes on the door. Maybe it's just me, I don't know.

The first time I was aware that facial hair mattered was one night back in the mid-1970's, when I was sitting at my tray table having dinner, watching "Star Trek" reruns on the big Magnavox color TV that my dad had bought because it came with an autographed replica of Hank Aaron's baseball bat. The one he broke Babe Ruth's record with. My dad mounted the bat above his office doorway downstairs.

Somehow, in a parallel universe, Mr. Spock was still Mr. Spock, but, well, Evil. He was Evil Spock. Aside from his powder-blue tunic being a little more "butch" than the little pajama shirt he normally wore around the Enterprise, the most obvious characteristic that distinguished Evil Spock from Regular Spock was a Fu Manchu goatee (pictured above). Mr. Spock was always bad-ass -- don't get me wrong. Even with the baby blue jammies. But man, with that beard, he was BAAAAD-ASS! My brother and I loved that episode, and always made sure to call each other in when it came on.

Probably the most distinctive mustachioed gentleman I know would be Brooklyn musician Gerald Menke. Menke (above, center) takes pride in the care and grooming of his 'stache, even entering (and winning) a local moustache-growing contest at a Red Hook tavern. One evening, he and his wife, my friend and former colleague, arts-educator/actress/vocalist Genevieve de Gaillande, were visiting with us in our apartment on Vanderbilt Street in Brooklyn. Actually, it wasn't just any night, it was Oscar night. We made a big deal of it, putting out a red carpet (literally), so that people could make an entrance arriving at our Oscar party.

The group was small but enthusiastic and in good spirits. At one point, Jeanette's best friend, and the godmother of our son, Diego, Johanna Fernandez, looked Menke right in the eye and said, in her best American History Professor voice, "Now, Gerald, will you please explain the moustache for me? Because I'm not getting it."

There was an awkward silence, during which I started crafting my apology for our friend's bluntness, but it ended quickly, as Menke cracked a big smile and explained his adventure in the moustache contest. His manner was so pleasant, and so self-effacing that it defused any tension that had been there before. Genevieve, however, had a protective expression on her face, and I made a mental note to keep her and Johanna far apart for the rest of the evening. Which I did.

And to be fair, some people just have strong reactions to facial hair. I actually had a friend and former colleague lean over to me before starting a meeting, and quietly whisper to me that his wife didn't like for him to grow facial hair, because beards make her think of child molesters. I stroked the goatee I'd grown over the winter break. "Hmmm," I answered, "how interesting."

The most important thing is that my wife Jeanette likes it. She's the one who will need to live with it, kiss it, and smell it. Ultimately, the decision is mine to make, but her decision is right there with mine, neck and neck. And she LIKES it. My five year old son also likes my beard, because, as he explains it, I will soon look like Santa. (Thanks, kid. Thanks a bunch.)

And I like it, too. The people who are intimidated or otherwise freaked out by it will just have to live with it.

Until my next "look" comes calling.