Guten Morgen, Mein Hair

0
71
Bed head is no laughing matter.

Bed head is no laughing matter.Unlike many other publications, the Round Top Register hasn’t made a habit of reporting on disasters.

Nothing about floods, tornadoes or Supreme Court decisions appears on its pages. During my years as editor of this magazine, I stuck by that policy. However, now that I’m wearing my columnist’s hat, I mean to break it.

No, the Roundtopolis has not been struck by an earthquake. The area is, so far as known, geologically stable, and I’m not going to make any snide remarks about its mental stability. Well, not in print. And, because I hope someday to acquire journalistic integrity, I hereby disclose a personal bias in reporting on the calamity known as Bed Head Syndrome: I suffer from it myself.

“What the heck is going on with my hair?” I asked my sister Marcia early the other morning. “It seems to be going in more wrong directions than a dime store compass.” My head looked like a trailer park right after a tornado.

She placed the thumb and forefinger of her left hand on her chin then walked in a circle to view my noggin from all sides. Finally, she extended her right index finger and began lightly tracing a large circle on the crown of my head.

“I’m not seeing a problem in this area,” she commented.

Well, har-har. Yet, unfortunately, it’s true. Like songbirds in winter, my hair has migrated south. In particular it seems to find the balmy climate inside my ears agreeable while the top of my head is like tundra: barren and shiny white.

“Did it occur to you that I may have taken a religious vow,” I muttered in my own defense.

“Oh, is there is a patron saint of male pattern baldness?” she retorted.

This was getting me nowhere. I didn’t wish to dwell on hair that has already submitted a change of address form. Just because my scalp’s neighborhood is suffering from blight doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about the residents who are still hanging on, and they are clearly distressed. I rephrased my question.

“Well,” said Sis, “you’re a victim of BHS.”

I arched my eyebrows questioningly.

“Bed Head Syndrome,” Marcia replied. “It’s hereditary. Some people just wake up looking like they need to call FEMA.”

“Oh, yeah? How come you don’t have it?”

“That’s just how the genetic dice roll. I’m one of the lucky ones. But take a look at this photo of your newest niece. They call her ‘crazy hair.'”

Taking a gander at the newest member of our family, I couldn’t help seeing the resemblance. At least, thank the Lord, she’s female and won’t end up looking like Friar Tuck wearing mink ear muffs.


by Kurt Wilson
©Copyright 2015 — Kurt Wilson