Some Hairy Thoughts

Hair? Who would blog about this vestigial reminder that we once had fur? Well, I for one would. Hair has played a sometimes interesting role in my life.

As a child, my mother took me to the barber where haircuts were twenty five cents, then fifty cents, and then on upward. My barber was Mr. Fly, a nice man who withstood my mother's wrath when cuts got to be seventy five cents. At about age ten, I told Mr. Fly that I wanted a summer cut with the number one cutter (about an eighth of an inch). I assured him that I would take all responsibility. He cut, and then I caught my mother's wrath. She called me a convict and banished me from the house until my dad arrived. He looked at me and said," If you wish to appear as a fool, so be it."

As a fifteen year old, I was the willing victim of some girls who told me that lemon juice and ammonia would do a nice bleach job. I opted for a streak right down the center of my head. A sort of blond Mohawk effect. My mother handled this rather well, by then somewhat used to my hair antics. That evening, she did mention that she hoped it wouldn't make my hair fall out. Relatively sure of myself, I reached up and grabbed a finger full to pull. Lo and behold, it came right out! Panicked, I awaited Mr. Fly for a sidewalk consultation, as he usually walked home from the shop by our house. He told me that he thought the hair would return. It did.

About that same time, I decided that I needed some sideburns. I shaved three or four times a week which was sufficient to get a decent growth by then. I had burns down below my ear lobes, and mother went into orbit. Mt father was smart enough to not forbid the fruits of my follicles, and he placated her sufficiently until that phase passed.

On the hair front, things were quiet until the early sixties, when haircuts went to an all time high of two dollars and seventy five cents. This was more than my budget could handle as a neurosurgical resident, so I bought a haircutting set at Sears and began to do my own tonsorial duties. This led to a permanent (for then), number one cut. As a resident, this saved time in grooming but required an increasing number of cuts to keep the hair under control at the length I wished. It so happened that around that time, I was fortunate enough to have a friend and neurosurgical mentor named Thor Sundt. Sufficient to say that Thor was a role model for a lot of his residents in many ways, was an excellent researcher and clinician, Became the chief at The Mayo Clinic, and by the way shaved his head.

I resisted the impulse for a time, finished my training with my number one cutter hair length, and became a POW of the USNR in Boston at the Naval Hospital, Chelsea. The commanding officer at Chelsea happened to be a short, pudgy, and bald little fascist who fell in love with the fact that I a smooth face and almost no hair while he was exposed to officers and students who wanted all the hair that they could get and still be regulation. My naval career was advanced in no little measure by the fact that the captain used me as an example of good officer material on several occasions.

Several years after the military service had ended, I began in earnest to use the Gillette and entered the cue ball phase of my life which persists to date. I was seated across from a then head of neurosurgery at The Meyer Brothers (our name for The Mayo Clinic). He cracked at me, "Who are you trying to imitate, Thor Sundt?" To which I replied, "Can you think of anyone better to emulate?" That's another story.

While studying for the neurosurgical board exams, I took a month off and decided to grow a mustache. My granddads had mustaches which fascinated me as a young child, especially when they ate corn on the cob. By the time of the exams, I had a nice semi-handlebar present. I did offer to shave it off when one of my old teachers commented on it. Fortunately, none of my examiners knew me and cared less about it than what I knew. A few years later, I spent my time in Saudi Arabia and added the goatee to look royal.

Things have been quiet on the hirsute front for sometime, although I tell each new grandchild when they ask what happened to my hair, that I told my mother a story once, and it all fell down to my chin.

Today's styles make hair a real strike against a man. The beautiful men have to shave or wax their chests. In my developing years, one ate carrots, the crust on the bread, etc. so one would grow up and have hair on their chests. Things change.