While waiting in line to pay for a flock of bananas and my jug o’ milk the other day, one of my fellow grocery shopping brethren offered some grooming advice. This conversation commenced only after she dished out no fewer than 14 coupons to the cashier, assuring her and I would have enough time to discuss every small talk topic in the Milky Way. However this was no weather and Lotto Max chitchat. The condensed Reader’s Digest version would have read something like this; “Have you considered cutting your hair? Your chances of finding gainful employment would increase exponentially and to be frank, long hair just isn’t in anymore.”
In response, I mumbled something about having an extra chromosome and how long hair and El Caminos go hand in hand. As far I as know, I don’t have an extra chromosome nor do I drive a car that wants to be a truck but she had it coming and I will continue to stand behind my less than confrontational comeback. Long hair not in?! Where was the humanity in such a vicious and unprecedented statement?
I drove home that afternoon with the window down while my neck blanket, my Kentucky waterfall, my party in the front and party in the back hair-do did its thing, courtesy of the winds of Medicine Hat but a bad seed had already been planted and it wasn’t long before it had taken root in the un-weeded garden I call my brain.
Later that day I came across an old picture of myself and while my less-than-fashionable hair was still intact, there was something different. You see, while the hair on my head along with my kidney, neck and back hair continued to develop like a commercial for Miracle-Gro, I had gotten older and my visage my was full of proof. I can offer up a few examples and I’ll begin with what I deem as “The Mountain Ridge.” Think back to how surprised you were when you got pulled over for speeding on your Vespa. The eyebrows are raised while the forehead becomes furrowed and the end results are a series of bumps, wrinkles and crinkles situated between the hair line and the unibrow. This piece of corrugated skin, my aging friends, is known as The Mountain Ridge and as the mountains rise with age, the valleys deepen and the next thing you know, a sherpa guide is knocking on your door wanting to use your nose as base camp.
I’ve also noticed that the engineers who dictate my physical form have started a new project and the conundrum is that I don’t remember signing off on the approval form either. It would appear that two tiny cul-de-sacs have begun to structure themselves symmetrically just above my ears. To judge and determine the size of your genetic parking lot, pretend you’re driving a Hot Wheels car around your hairline and when you hit overdrive, take note above eyebrows No. 1 and No. 2. It’s here that the mop top recedes and the creation of new space starts, to varying degrees, depending on what phase and how fast your construction crew works and how efficient your own personal city council is. Combining years of pre-set DNA structures that you and I had no say in, the culmination of cul-de-sacs may be the least of our worries as it was pointed out to me by Half-Naked Neighbour, “Don’t worry about the cul-de-sacs. It’s when they want to re-landscape the entire dome and build a skating rink; that’s when you know you’ve gotten older.”
And now if you’ll excuse me I have to explore my basement in search of Ron Popeil’s Hair In A Can.
And if you’ve got something on your mind, you can find Poncho weekday mornings on Medicine Hat’s rock station, 105.3 Rock. You can also track him down at http://www.1053rock.ca or on Twitter @ponchoparker
