Like Haircuts...
“Just trim it up a bit.” It’s my standard response when asked, “what are we doing today?” by the various stylists and barbers who have tried their hand (and scissors) at bringing order to the mat of hair on my head. My answer is usually met with a puzzled look while the stranger in the mirror scans my head, trying to see some logical endpoint despite the many cowlicks staring back at them. “Yeah, I know…” I offer up as they comb through the knots and split ends, their expressions going from surprised to aghast as they realize the work ahead of them. You can understand why I let my hair grow like an untamed bush, throwing a hat on to cover up the mess until someone finally makes the suggestion: “I think it’s time for a haircut, Matt.”
In 2013, I was at a party when an acquaintance brought to my attention that my hair was thinning. He was drunk and running his mouth; I just focused my energy on not tackling him to the ground and tearing out his hair. I had already started to see the signs in the mirror, to see the hair leftover on the towel after I finished drying it. His unnecessary commentary was the last strand; something had to be done. It wasn’t long before Rogaine arrived at my door (thanks, Amazon), and I was fussily applying the foam to my scalp, hoping and praying that I would be able to keep the hair on my head. It’s funny, actually, remembering back to my college days when in frustrated moments on the volleyball court, I would turn against my hair in anger, pulling at it in hopes of tearing it out. How fitting that a few years later I was desperately trying to make it stick with special shampoos, conditioners, and treatments.
Well, I’m hardly a creature of habit, especially when I don’t see immediate results. I stopped using Rogaine shortly after starting and opted instead to just see what happens. Of course, that made trips to the barber even more difficult as I stared back at the rapidly aging stranger in the mirror. It seemed with each visit there was less hair to cut even if I let it grow wildly in between. This resulted in more fear of getting into the barber’s chair, so I avoided it as best I could. I hid from the truth under a hat; however, I wasn’t able to escape unscathed. I grew more concerned about what lay beneath, afraid of the surprised expression I might see if my hat were to fly off and the whole world might find out. Eek! I’m balding. It was during a recent trip to the barber that my internal struggle came to light. I nervously laughed while going through my normal spiel about what I wanted done with my tangled mess, discreetly adding “and if you can make it look like my hair isn’t thinning, that would be great” with a forced smile. The barber and I got through it together, but it was what she said at the end that was the most damning. Looking at myself in the mirror with the finished product, she pointed out that the way she styled the sides and top should help cover the receding areas. There it was: the truth. In all it’s balding glory.
This is why we can’t have nice things…like haircuts.
One is the loneliest number, right? Of course, two can be as bad as one, but is it the loneliest number since the number one? That I don’t know. When I think about the rise and fall of my hair, I’m reminded of Homer Simpson and the 2-4 strands attached to his head. I can’t imagine what my head would look like with just a couple follicles clinging to my scalp; when I consider one single strand left…my mind seizes up. Will I look like a monster? No offense to Homer or the animators who flesh him out, but I don’t find him to be the most attractive bald-headed character. Will balding bring more isolation and misery? A resounding “no” is what I hear from Woman’s Day with their assertion that “Bald men are often seen as more successful and dominant than men with lush locks, a study from 2012 found, according to Business Insider. The research says that women tend to find hairless men to be larger, stronger, and more powerful, too.” That’s all well and good, but I’m not sure their examples—Bruce Willis, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, and Jason Statham—are who I want to emulate. When I search back through my memory bank to pick out a bald man’s footsteps I’d be willing to follow, only one person comes to mind: my grandfather.
Unfortunately, those footsteps were swept away in 1998 when my grandpa passed, and what was left in their wake I could barely see. I don’t think I’m divulging any family secrets (well…at this moment) when I say that I was my grandpa’s favorite. Before I learned how to play the piano or flew in a plane with him (both of which he loved), we had this inseparable bond. My mom recently shared that when I was young, he would whisper into my ear, and I would respond with a beaming smile and/or a hearty laugh. Sadly, I don’t quite remember those bonding moments with him. In fact, there are only two memories that come to mind when I recall my grandfather’s presence: 1) playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” for him on the piano and 2) the plane crash. This upsets me. Why can’t I remember my grandpa outside of this high point and low point? There must be more in between that I’m failing to see…In Heaven on Earth, I dug up my 8th grade classmate in order to understand the hell I was putting myself and others through, leading me to discover a more joyful present state than I previously was able to recognize. Oh sh*t…this is definitely going to make me cry…maybe I can use the tears to promote new hair growth. :/
Undercut Fade
I feel like I’ve been an emotional wreck lately, like I can’t get my sadness under control. The last few months have brought many tears; most have come while walking along with Molly, my best pal forever, thinking about that fateful day in the plane. Geez, Matt, that happened over 20 years ago. Aren’t you over that yet? Back in 2017, I walked you through what happened—my first blog post!—and shared my reaction to that traumatic experience. What I didn’t reveal was how my grandfather and father responded to the crash: it barely seemed to register that we almost died. I suppose much of their non-reaction was shock, but there we were in the field together, next to a heap of metal that once brought us to incredible heights. It was probably my grandfather’s most prized possession, reduced to nothing. Still, there were no visible signs of fear, anger, or grief. No, they didn’t have time for those emotions; it would only make them appear weak. These were men, gods among men (as I saw them), who were able to stand tall without falling to pieces despite almost being crushed into the ground. Buried with no more than a whisper.
I discussed my angry breakdown and the confusing mix of negative emotions that followed the crash in my initial blog. Upon delving into the complexities of what I felt that day—like, really getting in there—I realized how much my reaction was just a cover up, a disguise to sustain my “one-of-the-guys” membership. I was physically “ok,” but my heart shattered into thousands of pieces that day. Everything I thought I knew changed; everyone I thought I could trust, including myself, also reversed course. It wasn’t that I blamed my grandfather for the plane crash (or maybe I did?); I no longer viewed him as the person who was able to protect me, to impart the peacefulness I enjoyed at a younger age. I vividly remember, after being checked on by paramedics in the field and getting medical clearance, we headed to my aunt’s house where the family was gathered. It was clear how upset my mom was. Obviously, right!? She almost lost 3 of the most important people in her life in one fell swoop. I mirrored the reaction of the men around me, though, going so far as to laugh it off as some wild ride. We were protecting my mother by acting like everything was fine, but deep down we all knew that nothing was the same. And it was the silence that began to tear away at everything we held dear.
Buzz cut
I returned back to school the next day (or perhaps the day after) as if nothing happened. I remember laughing about the experience with my peers and teachers, once again feeling the need to protect them from my new reality. Some interesting things happened when I repressed my emotions: my mood fluctuated rapidly, I felt numb to what was occurring around me, and I questioned where I belonged, how I fit into the world. No one else could possibly understand how I felt aside from those who went through the experience with me, and since those individuals were tight-lipped on the matter, I held my tongue, my tears, and my torment. I was cut off from everyone, everything. The more my emotions threatened to boil over, the more I pushed them down and guarded them. It was as if each shattered piece of my heart had a wall being built around it, protecting me from feeling the full weight of the crash rather than reconstruct what was broken. This resulted in a more fragmented lifestyle, one based in deceit and manipulation. If I were to let it all out, everything I felt, I would betray my family, my gender, and, as crazy as it sounds, my emotional well-being. I convinced myself that the only way to be emotionally centered was to strip myself of all emotions. Just a little more off the top.
As I adjusted to the new normal, my grandfather and I grew apart. Sure, we still smiled and laughed together when given the opportunity at family gatherings, but our connection carried an unspoken weight. I entered middle school, an environment that necessitated more protection of my broken heart, and I was quickly losing touch; however, I couldn’t trust my grandpa to bring me back. We could barely communicate outside of the language I expressed through the keys on the piano, and even that was becoming a daunting chore. Everything tied to him—all the joy, the sorrow—was swallowed up into a deep chasm of my mind. We were suddenly two strangers, unable to reclaim the bond that brought so much meaning to both our lives. And then, he was gone. By that time, I was confident in my ability to bury my emotions; to distract me, I focused on resolving others’ emotions. In this case, I rushed to my grandmother’s side to protect her. But even that was short-lived as my guard continued to go up each passing year, until I was pushing her away when she tried to reach out. Then, she was gone, too. I lost my bald-headed hero and the only woman who could really help me understand who he was deep down.
The loss of a loved one is an emotional battle; every missed opportunity to share, to ask questions compiles and threatens to tear apart the feeble hold we have on life. It was just this past year I learned that my grandpa was in a lot of trouble following the crash. Apparently, he didn’t have his license at the time, and he was having to defend his missteps or suffer greater consequences. I had no idea, neither did my parents. This brought me to a new low: did I kill my grandpa? Did the guilt of his actions weigh on him so much that he lost his will to live? Was the severed connection with me a constant reminder of his mistake? It makes me want to burst out in tears to think of his silent struggle. His unspoken grief. His pain. His isolation.
Comb Over
I’ve worked hard over the past couple of years to be a whole-hearted, harmonious organism, to reclaim those broken parts and put them back together in a way that makes sense to me. However, something has held me back from reaching the emotional depth I need for meaningful connection. When those around me tried to get close, asking questions that reveal my fragmented lifestyle, I pushed away and attempted to escape. I externalized whatever I could, like my balding, to avoid the pain that shreds apart everything I hold dear. I remember, years before the plane crash and my grandparents’ demise, my aunt, who is an incredible vocalist, recorded a version of “Friends” for my grandfather. I can’t tell you how many times I listened to it, the rewind button on my grandparent’s cassette player becoming my new best friend. Nearly every time, I bawled my eyes out, particularly at this lyric: “Though it's hard to let you go, in the Father's hands we know, that a lifetime's not too long to live as friends.” Fast forward to 2003: after I played “My Heart Will Go On” on the piano at my grandma’s funeral (her most requested song), my aunt sang “How Great Thou Art,” which reduced me to a blubbering mess. I remember thinking, I will never see my grandparents again; their touch, their presence will be forever lost because I won’t be able to handle the emotional weight of processing their deaths.
I am terrified of getting too close, of reaching out, of being my whole-hearted self around others, because I’m afraid of the loss my soul will suffer when that bond disappears. It’s a well known fact (thanks a lot, Healthline) that we cannot live forever. Just writing that sentence makes me squirm, but it has less to do with my inevitable death and more to do with watching those around me dwindle away. Of being left alone. I don’t know where to place this overwhelming grief. I can’t just comb it over. I can’t throw something on top of it. I have to face it: those I love will experience the grip of death. (4WB: I’m really crying now). If I try to avoid that reality, I will enter back into the fragmented lifestyle that brought me so much pain. If I try to confront it, I end up curled in a ball on the floor, drowning in tears, trying to find any means necessary to escape this enormous weight. How are we supposed to accept the death of our loved ones and still feel whole? How do we build bonds that we know will split, thin out, and fall away?
I know this isn’t a pleasant place to end as the tears stream down my cheeks. My heart feels so heavy right now, like it can’t take much more of this weight without collapsing. Yet, as I type these words, I recognize something important: my heart is whole. No longer am I seeking to escape what I feel. It’s taken over 20 years to reach this apex. I’ve faced my fears and owned my perceived mistakes; moreover, I’ve allowed myself to express the emotional responses along the way, creating a path that is based on the experience I’m living. It is isolating sometimes, being emotional, because our culture has excelled at cutting emotions down, thinning them out, and shaving them off. Just a little more off the top! I’m reminded—finally!—of the crucial lesson my grandfather taught me in those incredibly close moments: we allow ourselves to heal when we allow ourselves to feel. I will never be able to hold him close or look deeply into his eyes to see if I’m on the right path. Still, I hear his voice guiding me along, encouraging me to step boldly into the light with my heart on my sleeve. Whether I have hair on my head or not.