Comb

July 9, 2018

Greetings from the unmanageable,

It is possible that my ancestors lived in inhospitable climes, the Sahara, the Siberian Steppes, the Highlands of Scotland, and over generations they developed hair that was the consistency of twisted wire to protect themselves from the weather.  There was a brief time in my teens when I thought my hair was developed to protect myself from meeting girls, but thankfully that passed after only 1000 years of fighting the reality.

I have now lived longer without a comb than I have with a comb.  But the muscle memory involved in using a comb is still there.  I can almost feel the shape of an ACE Unbreakable in my back pocket.  (My butt cheek also has muscle memory, evidently)

During my formative years my Dad cut my hair in our tiny bathroom off the kitchen, a towel draped over my shoulders in a vain attempt to keep hair from getting down my shirt where it would itch for 1000 years.  In those days a comb was superfluous given that my Dad’s barbering skills were set permanently at ‘shorn’.

Combs were purchased at the drug store.  They were probably the cheapest thing you could buy there, other than perhaps penny candy, and were supposed to last for eternity.  When you give a young boy a comb he will lose it unless he breaks it first while using it to dig what he thought was a penny out of the crack in the sidewalk.  So the purchase was an exercise designed to create conflict that would ultimately teach the painful lesson of responsibility.  That’s a lot for a three-cent comb.

Combing my hair was not so much to control it as it was to resist its independence.  It was a protest against my hair’s natural tendencies.  There were ‘cowlicks’ which defied any control, in addition to my hair’s previously mentioned genetic steel-wool texture.  Some days the hair had to be beaten into submission with a stiff brush that was also used to clean the hibachi grille.

When I reached an age where was allowed to grow my hair long enough to go to an actual barber, I was given a comb and instructions to keep my hair neatly arranged.  This was probably another life lesson aimed at tenacity and diligence but I have no idea since I failed daily.

At some point I cared about my appearance and so I had to learn how to make the best of whatever direction my hair chose that morning.  There were waves and curls and whorls that refused to be defeated, and the longer my hair grew the more exaggerated the craziness became.  There was a short time I wore a knit hat to bed with the hopes that it might restrain my hair from creating new geometric chaos during the night, and perhaps allow me to comb it like a person.

A few of my friends carried combs and had developed a flair for whipping them from the back pocket of their jeans and swooping it through their hair in one suave action, while perfecting whatever look in the mirror with which they would impress the world. 

I lacked this coordination.  Combing my hair, or rather combing AT my hair, was an activity that seemed more comical than practical, without even addressing the grooming designed to make me more presentable. 

At one point in my adolescence it was cool to have a comb that was long enough that it showed out of your back pocket.  If it was a status symbol it was never explained to me.  This evolved into a comb with a handle.  I went through this evolution of combs, but my hair was indifferent to the changes. 

In the late 60’s and early 70’s my hair was long and the longer it grew the more insubordinate it became.  Combing my hair was like clearing brush.  In my late teens there were days it became an afro.  For a short period I carried an afro-pick with a Black Power fist and a peace symbol on it.  This might be the most ironic thing I have ever owned. 

I won’t pretend not to be vain but at some point I conceded that my comb would not change my hair, and my hair would not change my life.  I was going to look like I look, and however that was it was not going to propel me or stop me.  That was something outside the realm of combs. 

One of my favorite possessions for many years was a small biker hat that held my hair in place while I rode.  It did what the comb could not.  It directed it in a helpful way so I could enjoy my ride without considering my hair.  That became a useful model.

There eventually came a time when combing my hair became a defensive measure.  A well meaning barber pointed out that I was ‘thinning’ on the back of head (something I would have never learned if she hadn’t felt the need to share that happy truth).  And so cutting my hair, and trying to comb it, became making the most of a shrinking resource.  There might have been a brief panic about this, but thankfully I had experience on my side. 

I have not needed a comb or brush or shampoo for over a decade.  I shave my head every day, not at all meant as revenge for the challenges my hair presented while it reigned on my crown.   I think I have a slightly pointy skull, it is hard for me to balance a book on my head.  I try not to think about it, and so far no one has asked me to prove my posture in this way. 

I don’t remember the last time I owned a comb.  I can recall caring about what my hair looked like, but it seems like a silly distraction now, considering what incredible things were happening all around me.  I try to remember that now when vanity pecks at my insecurities, of which there are legion.

I am not denying my heritage, (tempted to use ‘hairitage’ but spared us all that embarrassment) I am proud of my ancestry, including what attributes that manifest themselves from generations of surviving what the world presented.  Whatever we inherit it is always up to us to make the best of it.  We may use whatever combs or hats or blades at our command.

“Experience is like a comb that life gives you when you are bald.” Navjot Singh Sidhu

Hope this finds you parting,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith