Men are notoriously sensitive about their hair. According to some sources, even moreso than about penis size.
A few years ago, a big socialite in Boston swept past me at a party and said, “I’m not sure I like your hair that way.” I replied, “I’m not sure I give a shit.”
My hair has always been an embarrassment. Here’s a picture of me as an infant:
In between, there were years of trying to tame it with gel, paste, putty, and every known pomade, until the day I just gave up. This is what my hair does. I have tropical fish head. I decided to embrace it.
So for years now, I’ve worn my hair in an unruly spiky mess (admittedly aided by product of some sort). It’s kind of a trademark. The woman in the flower department at Whole Foods recognized me from a picture in the magazine I write for, The Improper Bostonian.
So today, I was wading through my mail, and I came across a card from an old friend. The card itself was pretty: a vintage New Yorker cover. Inside was a page torn out of The Boston Globe Magazine, with a photo of me wearing a hat. My friend wrote:
“Jonathan—is that you? You look so handsome—I’ve been thinking for a long time that it is time for you to change your hair. Love, X”
Well, X, I love you, too, and hats off to your honesty. But I’m deferring to Mother Nature for the time being.