By that I mean that I’m not obsessed with my looks. I don’t think that there was ever a time in my life when I was considered “hot” and, at 46, I don’t think I’m likely to start turning heads now.
If I allow myself any vanity, it is in the fact that I have nice hair. My hair is thick and soft and shows no signs of receding. I’m going to have this hair long after any other attractive feature I possess has ceased to be an asset.
I remember a time when I was about twenty. My brother had decided he wanted a mohawk. I came home one night and my mom was sitting with him in the living room. He was wearing a hat.
She was wearing an expression of quiet disapproval.
His expression was one of gleeful triumph.
The conversation went something like this:
“Hello, what’s going on?” I said because it would have taken someone completely oblivious to miss the implication that something awkward was, in fact, going on.
“Your brother…” my mom began and then stopped. My brother can grin in a way that is extremely unsettling. It is the grin of someone who is prepared to do something entirely unpleasant (but non-harmful) at any moment.
That was the way he was grinning as my mom tried to answer my simple question.
“Oh…” she finally said, “just show him.”
David whipped the hat off his head to reveal a completely bald pate. He’d even shaved the stubble.
“I shaved my head!” he cried.
“It feels awesome! Here!”
This is when he charged across the room and began to rub his bald head against my bare skin so I could share in the experience of his baldness. It felt pretty weird.
“Isn’t that weird?” he asked.
The whole situation was weird.