Saturday, June 11, 2011

An Aversion to Conversion

To steal a line from the musical powerhouse known as Dave Grohl, "I've got another confession to make", which is that I am not a fellow who understands the appeal of the convertible automobile.  Truth be told (what can I say?  Congressman Weiner is my inspiration when the topic is truth-telling) I have always been sort of vain when it comes to my hair.  To date, I have been lucky.  I have a lot of it.  A good, thick head of hair I have - indeed I do.  The older I get the more men I see who belong to the legion of the follicularly challenged.  'Tis an army whose ranks grow daily.  New recruits appear to be enlisting on a regular basis at the Firm as well as other places. 

Fortunately for me, baldness does not appear to be a bridge that I shall have to cross - at least any time in the foreseeable future.  That is most assuredly a good thing.  Based upon the circumference of the World's Fair exhibit I call my head, encountering it sans vegetation on top would frighten me at first glance every morning and would frighten those with whom I come into contact with every glance thereafter.  Bald may be beautiful but it most certainly would not be in the case of Yours truly.  Trust me. 

I am not as vain about my hair as I was when I was a kid.  Back in the day, I was the ticket-taker at the Theatre of the Absurd when it came to my hair, which always had to look letter-perfect.  When Kara, Jill and I were teenagers (or thereabouts) I had a friend in Harvey's Lake - the summer home of the Kenny family - who hung the nickname "Lance Romance" on me.  The nickname had nothing to do with my success attracting female companionship - not by a long shot.  It had everything to do with my obsession with my mane, which obsession necessitated me carrying a comb the size of a ruler in the back pocket of my blue jeans wherever I went.  If a rumble ever happened between two rival hairdressing gangs, such as the Redkens and the Jhirmacks, then I was the guy you wanted on your side.  My comb was not simply a styling tool.  It had serious, practical application as a weapon in a close combat situation. 

Anyway, while my level of vanity regarding my mop up top has lessened perceptibly over time - once it started to go gray I decided to limit my damage as much as I could by keeping it short and neat while otherwise attempting to shift focus away from it - I was reminded again this week that I still go not understand the appeal of the convertible automobile.  'Round these parts we had a couple or three days this week on which the Mercury tickled 100 degrees.  Not the most pleasant of circumstances to be sure.  And as sure as there is a run on Italian ices and portable air conditioners when a heat wave breaks out, there was an upswing in the number of convertibles I saw tooling around the local thoroughfares. 

The folks behind the wheels of those cars sure looked happy enough but I simply do not understand it.  I almost understand the attraction of having the wind blowing in your face, tossing your hair a hundred different directions and moving everything that is not welded in place all around the passenger compartment of your car when the temperature is in the 60-80 degree range.  At those levels, nothing is too hot or too cold.  It is as if Goldilocks has finally scored her driver's license - and she is driving topless. 

But when the temperature reaches the heights it did these past few days, there is nothing invigorating or refreshing about driving around exposed to it - as opposed to hiding from it in air-conditioned comfort.  Driving in a convertible in the weather we had the past few days 'round here is akin to being launched from a slingshot through a forest fire:  a true rush for the first couple of moments and a recipe for stark, irreversible harm almost immediately thereafter.  Happiness is getting punched in the face by hot, moist, humid air that for sh*ts and giggles mixes in the added bonus of exhaust fumes and bugs?  Not to this Mohican.  Not even close.  Unless my last name is Andretti or Earnhardt, sweating and driving are to forever be pursuits enjoyed with equal fervor but separate and apart from one another.  

I reckon I am simply a guy who refuses to become a convert.  Not me.  I am damn happy being an air-conditioned gypsy.  And that will never change....

....regardless of the color or (let us all hope it never comes to this) the amount of my hair.


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