
                         Styling has Hairy Implications
                                 by Dave Barry

 
 
    I  think we need some kind of public-service  advertising  campaign to 
    remind the public of the dangers of operating  a  motor  vehicle while
    under the influence of a new hairstyle.  I  realized  this  while  I 
    was driving to work this morning and  many  of  my  fellow  commuters
    were honking at me and making digital  gestures,  which  frankly  I
    deserved, because I was dividing  up  my  mental  capacities as
    follows:
 
    *Watching where I was going* -- 4 percent.
 
    *Checking my hairstyle in the rear-view mirror* -- 96 percent.
 
    So I apologize to you fellow commuters, especially whoever  was 
    driving  the BMW that wound up in the river, but I had no  choice.   I 
    have to monitor my new hairstyle at all times to make sure  the  gel is
    holding.  I never had gel in my hair before.  I never  even  really 
    had a hairstyle before.  For 41 years I have gone  with  a  very
    natural hair "look" that was originally popularized by  coconuts,
    wherein  you  have extremely straight strands  of  hair  or  coconut
    fiber radiating from a central point on top of the head or  coconut, 
    proceeding downward via the most direct  possible  route  and forming
    themselves into "bangs."
 
    The  thing about bangs is, they are not a  grown-up  hairstyle.   They 
    do  not inspire respect in people.  There has never  been  a  United 
    States  president with bangs.  If passengers  boarding  an  airplane 
    were  to glance into the cockpit and see  a  pilot  with  bangs,  they 
    would  injure themselves diving  out  the  emergency  exits.   They
    want a guy like Chuck Yeager, a guy who is not  even  *capable* of
    bangs.
 
    Nevertheless, I have been able to wear bangs right into  middle  age 
    because I work for a newspaper.  The First Amendment  to  the  U.S.
    Constitution specifically states that, to ensure objectivity,  male 
    newspaper employees should not be even dimly aware of  fashion. Modern 
    newspapers  are Fashion-Free  Zones,  protected  by  invisible 
    protective  Anti-Style Shields that  prevent  dangerous  Trend Rays
    from penetrating and causing the men to suddenly  realize  that they
    are dressed as characters from 1954 situation  comedies  starring the
    late William Bendix.
 
    This  lack  of  fashion awareness is  reflected  in  journalism 
    hairstyles.   For example, my editor -- this is the truth  --  has  not
    combed his hair in *24 years.*  He has extremely dense, random  hair, 
    which  he cares for via a styling technique  known  to  top  fashion 
    hairdressers as "evaporation," wherein he gets  his  hair   very wet in
    the shower, then, without combing it, he comes to work  and spends the
    day dripping water onto manuscripts that free-lance  writers  have 
    poured  their life's blood  into.   This  hair-care  technique produces
    a visual effect that looks as though, squatting  on his head, is a
    genetically deformed bison.
 
    So, I was comfortable with my bangs.  I resisted all efforts by  Jeri, 
    the extremely competent woman who cuts my hair, to make  me  look  less
    like Cubby the Mouseketeer.  My motto was,  "Hey,  it's  *my*  hair." 
    But then, one day at the hair salon, a  scary  event  made  me realize
    that people do not always know what is  best  for  themselves, 
    hairwise.   What happened was, a woman with  a  large  head  of hair
    dyed approximately the color of Bazooka bubble  gum,  but not as
    natural, sat down in the next chair and told the  hairdresser ,  quote,
    "Tease the s-word out of it, honey."   The  hairdresser  rolled  her 
    eyes upward -- if you look  closely  at  the  ceiling  of  a hair
    salon, you'll see thousands  of  little dents  caused  by hairdressers
    shooting glances up there -- and then  she  started teasing the woman's
    hair, and she teased it and teased it,  so  that the woman's hair got
    larger and larger, causing her  face  to appear smaller and smaller,
    until finally it looked the size of  maybe  a prune pit, inside this
    giant radioactive cloud  of  hair.   "Tease  it  more!" the prune pit
    was commanding  the  hairdresser,  whose  eyeballs  were now rolling
    all the way  backward  into  her  head, and I was thinking, geez, maybe
    I should listen to Jeri.
 
    Which  is  how I ended up with gel in my  hair  running  fellow 
    commuters off the road.  The gel is supposed to hold my hair back,  and
    it works pretty well for an hour or so, but then a troublemaker  hair
    will start to become rebellious.  "Hey!" it will say.  "We  don't  have 
    to take this!  Let's form into  *bangs!"*   And  then  there  will be a
    general muttering among the follicles,  and  soon  hairs  all over my
    scalp are pounding their tin cups on the  table  and  chanting *"Bangs!
    Bangs! Bangs! Bangs!"* and leaping  forward  onto  my  forehead, and I
    have to bring in the Riot Gel  to  quell  them.   But only temporarily. 
    They are always planning  the  next  breakout.  I am frankly starting
    to wonder whether I can keep this  hairstyle and still have a career. 
    Something has to give.  I have  to go look in the mirror.
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