-An obituary and a eulogy to my hairline whom I’ll miss.
Jordan Elaine Troublefield was born March 13th 1988 on a Sunday; his hair wouldn’t show ‘til 4 months after. Immediately the two took. Jordan recalls fondly the early memory of sitting for his father Sunday mornings before church –doused in hairspray discovering he looked much sharper with his hair parted to the right than the left. Or the time in which a bowl became a hat, became a haircut. A move to the countryside in the first grade saw the harsh Panhandle wind now tossing both of them around. When Jordan’s hormones decided to take their cruel transforming toll, his hair was right there with him, springing curly for reasons even his father and mother couldn’t define. It would become clear later it was for cute girls to run their hands through –distracted by what was on top of his head rather than pimples and oily skin only inches below. But every victory came bittersweet. From as early as comprehension allowed, both knew their time together would be tragically cut short -they’d seen it in his father, his mother’s father, and a whole slew of cousins. Like them, Jordan –too- was diagnosed with male pattern baldness. As Jordan’s forehead began to wax ever larger like a ominous phase of the moon, his hat collection now rivaling that of any museum’s, together they lived their last days head high, mugging for photos, always with the car window rolled down. On its final day, Jordan watched as most of what had been his hairline laid washed and limp in the shower drain, beneath the watch of his trusted Head & Shoulders, anti-dandruff shampoo. He was not yet 24.· · · · · · ·
Luke 12:7 says God knows each of the hairs on our heads. Each year, as I watched you wane from me –plucked like the long, unyielding yarn that forever deconstructs a sweater- suddenly God’s ‘gift’ seemed less impressive and more like a party trick used to revive stale conversations. I wonder if He’s bothered to count the plenty shoulder and back hair He’s left for me yet. If my tone seems bitter, I apologize; no one wants that, I’m sure. But in truth, I still wake up nights and reach for you; still stare at mirrors before realizing you’re not looking back. I now officially live in a world without you in it.
You can bet I’ll show pictures of you to my future friends and children. They’ll scarcely believe we were ever once so inseperable. Hey, remember that first year in college when we were broke, young and stupid and I only got haircuts in months that started in ‘J’? You were so out of control. Or the time in the second grade when a misfired prank left you washed white by an entire bottle of Elmer’s glue? Hurt like hell to wash out but at least it got us out of class. You took a lot of abuse from me over the years and for that I’m sorry. Belittling reminders –always from some Joker who thought he was the first- of how you looked like Kramer got old fast, I know. Pictures that could stop a political career dead in its tracks (a.k.a. ‘blackmail’) lay buried deep in my bureau -so insane, so out of control. In one, you actually somehow make me look like a rooster. Rest assured, I swear that these pictures will never see the light of day, again; your experimental phase is safe with me.
I wonder sometimes the shape my life will take without you in it. The pitiful, knowing stares that cut to the soul. The loneliness. The lumpy-headed elephant in the room. I won’t lie; I’ll cut up at my own expense if it breaks the tension fastest. There won’t be a lot I won’t do if it detracts attention and packs maybe even just a shallow shot at makeshift happiness. I worry what monsters I’ll create filling your gap; what seemingly normal things to me might show up ghastly out of the context of my head. Things like, ‘should I buy a toupee or one of those white powdery wigs I see politicians wear in Parliament?’ Hairplugs are certainly out of the question –my checkbook and my girlfriend tell me so. But no, replacement isn’t the answer. Rebounds never live up to the real thing (though it would save me a new, unrelated issue for my mid-life crisis).
And so we’re faced with the alterior option: Shave it all off. Kill Old Yeller. Take whatever’s left that reminds me of you and throw it out the window with the funeral arrangements. But I don’t want to look like Curley, Lex Luthor or Vin Diesel. I do not have a hilarious catchphrase, I do not have a slick suit to wear when I conquer Metropolis nor do I have biceps the size of beer kegs. And I don’t want to be them. I want to be me –just the way you left me.
So if I look lost down here, oh heavenly-bound hairline, it’s because, for now, I am. No one ever teaches you how to be a confidant, disease-free, bald man at twenty three. Suddenly, in my grief, I have to remind myself how to eat again, how to sleep again, how to ‘be’ again –not some walking, talking punchline but Jordan Troublefield (just if he happened to not have any hair). It sounds a simple request on paper, sure; I’ve just never attempted it alone before. I’m sure in time, the wind on my scalp will feel like home and shampoo purchases at half the pace will seem the norm. Heck, I hate to think there might even be a day I forget to miss you. I’ll have fun. But as you eternally ebb like the low tide retreating from my head to that great hair ball in the sky, know it’s been fun and I’ll be thinking about you, always.
