A Hair Too Far Outside the Zone

For a certain kind of male, a haircut is a bit like a screen name. Changing it causes so much trouble that, no matter how embarrassing it is, no matter how much ridicule might be heaped upon it, it's better just to stick with what you've got. For the last 30 or so years my own hair has been intractable. Next to it, the World War II Japanese soldier still hunkered down in some Pacific island cave looks shiftless. It isn't that I don't like variety; it's that my hair will not allow for it. Too short and -- as my wife often points out -- I am unpleasant to look at. Too long and it flops around in my eyes in a manner perhaps charming in a 5-year-old boy but annoying to a 43-year-old man. My job, as tender of my own hair, is to keep it within the acceptable band. The zone.

Lately the zone has proved trying. Either my hair is growing faster or the zone is shrinking. Trudging down the Berkeley hills to the barber once every three weeks, more than twice the acceptable rate, has become irritating. Today on the walk down it occurs to me that I have arrived at a personal tipping point. For the first time in 18 months my schedule is clear of public appearances. For the next few months -- when the weather in Berkeley is chilly, and the wearing of hats a common response -- it really doesn't matter what's on my head.

I take my usual seat in the chair and give Erika the news. Erika is technically a hair stylist. She resents that I treat her like a barber -- giving her exactly 20 minutes to execute exactly the same cut. She never says it, but I can tell she believes I deprive her of her artistic freedom. Now, when I tell her I'm ready for something different, and shorter, she grows excited.

"I'm so glad you decided to do this," she says as she grabs and removes huge chunks of hair. "What you had looked almost like a toupee."

Forty minutes later my eyes meet Erika's in the mirror. "You know," she says, "with your hair you can't really wear it that short naturally. We'll get you some product."

Product? "Product," it turns out, is clear shoe polish. It causes escaped convicts to gleam in the sunlight and attract attention. With product I am transformed from a man with a bad haircut to a man with a bad haircut who believes he has a good haircut.

"The whole point of this," I say to Erika, "is that I don't want to think about my hair." I want to escape the zone.