HAIR: Chapter One

Over the past weekend, along with other glazed, glassy-eyed consumers, I wandered the aisles of a department store, perusing this knack-knick, this coat, this candle, when I happened upon a display of DVDs, hundreds, perhaps thousands, but more realistically, dozens, scattered, with no discernible system of order, all at a bargain, and if you know anything about me, that I am somewhat frugal, thrifty, some say cheap, but I just love a deal, whatever that is, CDs, DVDs, SUVs, RVs, WMDs, ASAPs, RSVPs or bananas, the thrill of paying less than MSRP, has always been a kick, a joy of finding something of value at a ridiculously low price, almost euphoric in the knowledge of saving money, of scoring, which I know is borderline psychotic, but hey, that's who I am and I'm not changing now, as I crouch down, because the DVDs are towards the bottom of a chintzy metal rack, bulging under the weight of savings, knees creaking, hamstrings stretching, I, childlike, poke through a plethora of movie titles, bunches of Christmas movies destined for the garage sale, like "Elf" (Will Ferrell), "Sesame Street Does the Holidays" (Kermit, Big Bird), "Four Christmases" (Vince Vaughn, Reese Witherspoon), all varieties of religious flicks and whoa and behold, some actual movies I'd like to have in my collection, such as the director's cut of "Blade Runner" (Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer), "House of Flying Daggers" (Ziyi Zhang, Andy Lau) and, drum roll please, "Hair" (Treat Williams, John Savage), at prices to die for, at least to this cheapskate, I mean savvy buyer, the one that leaped out, caught my eyeballs, transformed my day of bargain-hunting, chilled my spine was this musical "Hair".

Now I know I'm being a bit dramatic and downright possessed, but I needed this movie.  I'll probably watch it a couple of times in my lifetime, but boy, what a steal.  Also over this particular weekend, The Wife, Ren and myself took in the movie "Tangled", a tweaking of Rapunzel.  Thoroughly enjoyed it.  Though not at a bargain price.  [Insert grumbling noise here]  The show was about hair.  And some other heart-warming message of love, kidnapping, boy-meets-girl, yadda yadda.  But really it was about hair.  Lots of it.  And then, same weekend, quite busy I may add, I read an article about the selling of Russian hair.  In a "poverty-ridden town", "log cabins and fallow fields", Mosal'sk, in central Russia, has one precious commodity: human hair.  Much of it is naturally blond.  Because of the hair extension rage, blond hair is easier to dye to match a woman's hair color.  Really though, do blonds have more fun playing with someone else's hair?  This prized commodity, "the blond harvest", has helped poor towns in Russia become a hair-raising community.  Hair-brained idea?  A 16-inch blond braid gets $50.  I guess, hair with split ends gets double?  Just a guess.

This story, however, is about My Hair.

The very personal history of My Hair began when I was cast out into a cold, unforgiving, dry world, with nothing but long, flowing, golden locks wrapped around my trembling body, protecting me, shielding my pink and blue and slimy and bloody pudgy, squishy self, from latexed hands, glaring lights, deep, scary voices and rear-end abuse.  The shears were immediately brought out.  Shiny.  Cold.  My first haircut was about to begin.  And me, a few scant seconds old.  Talk about cruel, anti-hair, masked, gowned giants taking advantage of a mere, helpless hairy baby.  That horrible sound still resonates within me today.  The slicing, slick metallic SssNip.  The final clip.  Matter spewing out of these long tendrils of tresses.  Everything went blank.  I was told later, much later, that nary a hair on my wee person was harmed.  That I was pronounced healthy.  And that shearing, disrespectful, awful sound was the cutting of the umbilical cord and not the  downy-soft, slightly wavy, shimmering of My Hair.  I was relieved.  But that horrendous experience left me forever leery of sharpened prongs of metal.  Leery of that nauseating, clipping sound.  Leery of latex.

Soon, I was the talk of the town, as there wasn't much to talk about besides the weather, Mrs. Lundquist's boil, the lancing of said boil and Doc Hansen receiving a face full of boiled puss.  My spongy limbs, my miniscule appendages (please, don't get dirty on me), my great big head lolling about.  But that head, My Head, was not swiveling fro and to like a bobblehead because of weak and undeveloped neck muscles.  Nay.  It was but the sheer (if shear, insert winces here) magnitude and weight of My glowing, splendid, bulk of Hair.  My Hair.  Down to the dimples in my buttocks was this mane of incredible magic.  This "Ah, look at His Hair" or this "My gosh, His Hair is beautiful" or this "What is he?  Some kinda freak?"  That last quote was from my Uncle Joe, he of baldness at age 16.

For the most part life was grand.  Lovingly and tenderly, Mom would brush my hair, count the strokes (thus, getting me started on counting) and sing.  Yes, sing.  About My Hair.  About how radiant, like the sun.  About how the angels delivered a miracle.

And then, disaster struck.  I remember it was warm out, this being May and the snow had finally melted.  Spring was springing up everywhere.  I think it also encouraged My Locks to spring forth and create joy in the house.  Joy in the streets.  Just another day in the bassinet.  Just another warm bath with bubbles of soap popping or was that me?  Whatever, it was so relaxing.  And then the brush.  Once.  Twice.  Thrice and so on.  I closed my eyes, reveling in security and peacefulness.  And then horror.  I open my eyes, as I felt something foreign floating, caressing my still-spongy arm.  I glanced over.  And there.  And there.  Everywhere.  Here there.  Aft and stern.  Front and back.  My Hair.  Swirling.  Clinging to my body.  Strings of gold fastened to my neck and shoulders.  I looked up at Mom.  Hoping a metallic, shiny instrument was not in her hands.  Hoping she hadn't brushed too many numbers that I was learning.  Hoping it was just a daymare.  "Oh my, all your hair.  Look Marco Polo, your hair."  She held up her dripping hands.  Hair.  My Hair.  Draped around her hands like some recently skinned mammal was hair.  My Hair.  Everything went blank.  Again. 

This really isn't me and My Hair.  This was the cheapest model I could find.