Style points

My dad would be thrilled and tickled if I spent a long, laborious paragraph describing his facial hair in great detail. So this one’s for you, pops.

 

First off, there’s something you have to understand about the man: He’s an “old hippie from way back,” in his words. Aside from the debauched behavior that this implies, it means he has rather “free” notions about what constitutes a normal and acceptable style. Don’t get me wrong; his chosen facial hair configuration is pretty awesome, in much the same way that a giant bone shoved through the nose of a tribesperson is awesome: You know you wouldn’t want that look for yourself, necessarily, but man, you just can’t look away.

 

It’s a unique motif he’s got crafted for himself. Bald on top, his hair in back is grown somewhat long, in sort of a Hulk Hogan-ish mane that blows behind him in a tight wind like a cape. (Is that a mixed metaphor? I can never tell.) This hair connects to a set of epic sideburns that flare out from the sides of his head with an authority that’s almost scary – it’s the way a blazing fire would look if it was somehow growing out of a person’s face. This, however, is all window dressing for the centerpiece of this daring arrangement: a long, pointy beard that looks like the mother of all arrowheads, an imposing triangle of salt-and-pepper fur extending down his chest in a geometric tumbleweed. Well-kempt and exactingly trimmed, one gets the impression it could puncture a monster-truck tire. The members of ZZ Top bow before it in humble servitude.

 

This has been his style for decades. That fascinates me. At some point in his life, he looked into a mirror, rubbed his chin consideringly, and said to himself, “Yep, this is going to be my style.”

 

Wild.

 

Like all styles, it’s an expression of who he is. When most people pick a style for themselves, it’s usually more understated; someone with a penchant for emerald jewelry is being decidedly more subtle than any man with a foot-long hair spike that could parachute him to safety from a nosediving plane. But my dad’s look is a manifestation of the same desire the majority of us share: To present ourselves a certain way, to say with our appearance, “This is who I am.” In his case, it may also be a cry for help. We’re still trying to figure that one out.

 

The lucky ones get it right, and stick with their choice. Out of thin air, I’ll grab Al Pacino as an example. Visually, Pacino’s defining characteristic is a shock of jet black hair that swoops up from his forehead in a dramatically coiffed pompadour; the envy of Elvis impersonators the world over, it’s a lush thicket that could easily nest a fledgling family of urban sparrows. On another guy – on most other guys – it would look ridiculous, a greasy mop borrowed from the chemically-fortified head of a 1950s lounge lizard. On him, it just works. And he’s figured that out. Can you imagine him with a buzz cut, or the wind-chime dredlocks of a rastafarian? He wouldn’t be Al Pacino anymore. He’d just be some dude with wild, devilish eyes and a gravel voice that could skin the bark off a tree. A pack-a-day creeper.

 

Not everyone is so lucky. Youth, in particular, is a time for trial-and-error, and high school halls are rife with identities invented and discarded on fickle whims. Goth one day, preppy the next. I remember it with chilling clarity: During an ill-fated attempt at playing high school football, I took it into my head to adopt the jock’s casual style; I spent the better part of my sophomore year wearing Dallas Cowboys jerseys, despite coke-bottle glasses and frequent, spontaneous nosebleeds – not to mention that the closest I had ever been to Texas was burning my mouth on hot wings at a sports pub. It’s a bad sign when even the guys on your football team mock you for wearing football jerseys. I soon quit the team and the style both, trading them in for the drama club, which conveniently hid my style-less form behind various nylon leggings and chicken costumes.

 

That’s what it takes, sometimes. You ping-pong between various looks until you find the one that works: That certain hair style, those specific clothes. The more personalized styles, the ones involving avant garde clothing choices and piercings the size of go-kart engines, become frivolous and silly over time; after a certain age, it’s time to stop using one’s appearance as a billboard for individuality. We still make choices, though, and collectively, those choices define who we are. Some care about it more than others – personally, if I could get away with coming to work in Thunder Cats jammies, I would – but nobody’s immune from the consideration. We’re Nike and New Balance and Reebok; we’re bowl cuts and flattops and ponytails; we’re Old Navy and Macy’s and Banana Republic. We’re hippies with sharp-tipped beard swords.

 

I’ve got to hand it to my father. He found a way to make baldness cool-looking, whereas I just look like a light bulb with a face. He found it a worthy representation of who he is, and stuck with it. We should all be so lucky. Because more important then how we appear to others is how comfortable we are with ourselves; it’s liberating, I imagine, to look at oneself in the mirror and say with confidence, “This is who I am. This is me.”