Hair

I’ve always envied men with curly hair, men like Jim who receive compliments from strangers. When we were young, women adored him, failing to notice me. I guess my hair has been a life-long curse, looking like England’s Boris Johnson at a young age, growing into a porcupine as a preteen, and resembling a toilet brush for the next ten years. My father took great pride in cutting my hair, but managed to trim my sidewalls to the exact length, where each short hair stood at attention. I would go weeks without looking into a mirror, until my mother gave me a home permanent one day, leaving me with uncontrollable curls. It was heaven for three months, followed by a depression too deep to describe, comforted only by a small lock I’d saved when it was over. Jim was a drummer on weekends, playing mostly at weddings. He’d arrive at work on Mondays wearing a smile, but appearing a little fatigued, his curls hanging a little lower on his forehead. He was eventually fired when our employer discovered his music business card had their phone number and that he booked gigs on company time. Now that we’re both in our mid-seventies, I can only hope he’s bald, while I glory in my full head of straight white hair, minus the growing bald spot in the back. Of course, baldness is now chic, leaving me at the curb of fashion once again. So Jim, I haven’t seen you in fifty years, but I envy you still.