My mother has often been told, even by stangers in the grocery store, that hers is impressive. My father, though, finds his rather diminshed. My wife, for all her effort, never seems satisfied with hers. Me? Frankly, I'd be glad to be rid of much of mine. Even those most blessed, though, will at some point find themselves pulling their hair out over their hair.
These little strands of protien, my second-favorite indicator of our mammalhood, may seem vanishingly trivial, but play a far more important role than you might imagine in our society and culture.
Since time immemorial, it has plagued us. We left the trees and shed heaps of fur under the hot African sun. Some more than others. Trekking ever outward, some of my ancestors reached northern Europe where they found they really could have used some of that extra insulation. There was a simple fix, though: borrow it from the local animal population. (Why Mr Bear, that's lovely fur you have, may I? Oh, thanks!) Thus were the first fur coat, and perhaps the first implausible-looking tupee, born. This is also the group that would go on to concoct a story about a damsel locked away in a tower with her locks as her only means of egress, or as her paramour's only means of access, depending on which version you prefer.
We have developed pathologies surrounding this stuff that go much deeper than its roots. Sometimes, with long hair, as the poet Steve Tyler mused, "Dude Look Like a Lady." Four score or so years ago, flappers caused a stir with their daring short-bobbed dos. So scandalous was it that before Fitzgerald made us laugh with "Bernice Bobs Her Hair", O Henry made us cry when Della sacrifices her tresses in "Gift of the Magi." This strong cultural definition of masculine and feminine hairstyles might lead one to conclude that it plays some role in our sexual identity. I know I've never permed my hair, and most of the men's hair colorings are aimed at those not yet ready to buy into the "gray equals distinguished" formula. Though, Grecian Formula, they do buy. The women's hair aisle abounds with rare and sometimes wholly unnatural colors, and every woman I know has tried one or more ill-advised expeirments in order to "improve" their coiffure. My mother and aunt, vexed by their long, thick and wavy italian hair, at one point took turns ironing it flat to conform to the 70's straight-hair ideal. Why the difference in hair care, though? Here is my theory, which is likely to get me in trouble: noone has ever thought ill of a woman for publicly exposing her full, luscious hair. Until relatively recently, showing skin, or even suggesting there was anything of interest to a man under a dress was simply not done. What was suppressed down here came out here. Think of it in terms of natural selection, with men as bees, and ladies' best follicular efforts as the very flowers of the field, competing for attention and ripe for, uh, pollination. Sexy hair will only get you looked at, not talked about. Bad hair is another story.
One's identity, expressed in hair, goes well beyond male and female, though. Some of the devout shave their head. Others keep it covered, mitigating "pollination". My own fashionable 'do is an expression of my inherent laziness, as, I suspect, are my mom's lengthy locks. Within groups, however, what divides elsewhere can serve to unite. My beautiful wife's ancestors did not make that trip north to visit Mr. Bear and friends. They opted to stay put with Miss Lioness and her crew in Africa. Her hair, therefore, is facinatingly different from mine. Before I met her, I was blithely oblivious to what she calls "the hair shack." Within its sometimes slightly shady strip-mall walls lies a universe of hair technology and torment that this irish-italian lad has only begun to discover. She will come home with hair that is hers only because she bought it, pointy instuments that I would not allow near my own tender noggin, and tubs and tubes of chemicals that bear frightening warnings. Where my hair-care routine is akin to mowing the lawn, hers is closer to a chemistry experiment. Reagents are mixed, reactions are timed, and safety equipment is used. And yet, her friends all do this too. And discuss it. At length. It's a commonality that binds them together, just as white women gossip loudly to one another over the roar of dryer bonnets in the salon, and men...pretty much everywhere...discuss sports and politics in the barber's chair. We are, in the end, just sparsely insulated primates helping each other groom.
Recall, when next you undertake to comb it over, or sit down to sweep it up, or even think do it in by pulling it out, that it shapes you just as you shape it.