A Man's Crowning Glory

Amidst talk of crazy cartoons, war, figure skating and medals, amid thoughts of papers and grades, one loses sight of what really matters: my hair. Curly and flowing now, it serves the double purpose of keeping me warm and reminding everyone what they have already gleaned from my name and nose. But it was not always so curly. In my younger and more formative years, it lay on my head like a board, lifeless. And as a little one, my hair sprang about my head, nappy and fro-ish. By virtue of it occupying the space on top of my head, my hair has always been a part of me. But it took years for me to see it as a friend.

One day at age eight, I sat at the head of the dinner table in Martha's Vineyard and commanded court.

"Who here has curly hair?" I demanded. My aunt and a few of my Grandma's friends raised their hands.

"Who wants to trade curly hair for straight hair?" I yelled, shooting up my hand. Surprisingly, no one else raised theirs. I glowered at one of my Grandma's friends.

"I like it," she offered to me. Liked it? I thought. How? None of my heroes had curly hair: Jerry Rice, the biblical patriarchs, Steve Urkel. I liked Mel Brooks; I never aspired to be him. There was no John Wayne of the curl. To quote the eminent psychologist Dr. Ronald C. Fish, "When a preteen sees his wavy hair above his girlish figure it is more than a little disconcerting."

I took my first stab at establishing a non-hair based identity in sixth grade. The suggested dress for our class picture was formal, and my classmates stood in rows, sweaters on their chests and shit-eating grins on their faces. I stood in the back, aloof. I wore a t-shirt bequeathed to me by my grandfather, upon which lay a green trout. Under the trout were the words: "I fish... therefore I am." A mustard stain of unknown origins featured prominently as well, making the fish appear dehydrated.

Fortunately, sixth grade ended and, eventually, seventh grade did as well. In eighth grade I returned to my roots. Finally satisfied with the social ledge I managed to perch upon, I grew out my hair. Long. I thought the curls would grow out into some wavy mid-90's masterpiece. My parents documented me wearing a Kimono (I have no idea why), fluffing up my hair palms lengths above my head and tying it in braids. Other footage shows my hair poofed out clown-like, as I juggle oranges and apples, a goofy grin sitting on my face.

Despite numerous trips to the salon, my hair kept expanding. One night my parents received a call from Hebrew school, saying I had disturbed class by hiding a fork and a pencil in my hair. The next day it was magically reduced to the length of a manicured lawn, and pictures from that era show me arms-crossed, lower lip jutting out as if to fend off any tendril of a curl that would dare to snake down my forehead.

When did I learn to appreciate my curls? I thank the coinciding loss of my baby fat, first serious girlfriend, and the people who came up to me to rub my head, for allowing my hair to be a part of my identity.

Since the stabilization of my curls, I have moved on to experimenting with facial hair, most seriously in Harbin, China, where I studied abroad. One photo shows me with my chest protruding, arms gesturing, and a two-week beard plastered on my face, a young Moses or an old bearded lady, depending on whether you're my parents or my brothers. I grew the beard for five weeks, until I was stopped one day by four Africans sitting in an open-air cafe in Harbin (a sizable chunk of the city's African population).

"Hey, you know what?" they asked.

"No, what?"

"You look like Jesus."

That night the beard fell to the razor. I shaved half of it first. I walked around for an hour half grizzly and half baby-assed smooth, until I started to feel like an idiot, and lopped off the other half.

Today, though my face is naked, my hair sits proudly on my head, curly as nature intended it. My clothes are always green or blue, I never accessorize, and makeup makes me look feminine. My hair is how I express myself. Like it or not, we are judged by our appearance. But the confidence with which we hold ourselves affects said image. People would still have voted for Clinton if he had a rattail. Remember that before you kiss even one curl goodbye.