Head Shots

For the past couple days I’ve been digging through my mom’s collection of family photos and memorabilia in hopes of salvaging my heritage from the great credenza of neglect. Hundreds of pics, clippings and tchotchkies sit crammed into shoe boxes and plastic bags where time is slowly destroying them. It’s a crime.

Knowing that there's no way my folks will sit still while I explain how to scan and catalog all the stuff (let alone commit to the endless hours it would take), I've decided to scavenge a smaller collection for my own posterity. I do this primarily so my yet-unborn children will understand the broader meaning of "the curse" should I fail to find a mate whose genes redeem them from my imperfections. The photos not shot by my father [that aren’t cut in half by his ubiquitous thumb or have the appearance of being shot from an airplane] are of particular value, because of their rarity.

Pouring over old memories is not an uncommon ritual for me. I try to do it at least once a year, not because I live in the past, but rather because it's a reminder of the brevity of life [James 4:14]. I feel strongly that reclaiming whatever vividness is still attached to those fuzzy, magenta-hued images keeps me closer to who I really am, and it gives me a healthy perspective on life as a whole. And sure, it's equally valid for entertainment purposes ...

My mother was a beautician, and inevitably in early June came the ultimatum precipitated by my shabby coif: “Either let me cut your hair or I'll give you a body wave.” Body wave was a euphemism for "man-perm" that lured helpless males into a ’70s version of metrosexualism. I was a naïve grade schooler — an easy mark.

Having super-straight, fine hair, it tended to get overly ratty if I let it go too long, which I did because it covered the "open car-door" ears that caused me so many beatings as a kid. The argument was, "you can keep the hair if we give it some acceptable structure." It took me about three summers to realize that mom could never duplicate in reality what she envisioned on my head, and that no haircut in the world guaranteed as much social marginalization as the "fro," not even in an era when funky was cool. If the sight of my Mod Squad hairstyle failed to chase the girls away, the lingering smell of neutralizer accomplished it with ease. All I could do was hide my mini-nebula under a football helmet and pray it was a weak batch of chemicals.