Old Face on the Bald Spot

PREBREEN

POSTBREEN

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Hair drives this work. First thing that struck me was the subject’s pompadour. So I threw a Lords of Flatbush leather jacket on him, gave him a switchblade and turned him into an urban conflicted rebel bad boy hear-throb bleeding heart liberal.

The breening could have stopped right there, maybe should have. But I got a haircut day before yesterday, and that kind of wormed its way into the painting. Mrs. Breen was going to a fancy hair salon in Newburyport to get her do done and begged me to come along. I agreed to let her sophisticated ‘originally from NYC’ stylist have at my raggedy mop which hadn’t felt scissors in about 5 months. I resolved to abandon all control and let her go wild on my head. Ann picked these pictures of hip rock stars with their modern choppy hair cuts and said “do this” to the stylist.

Well, as usual, in the end, I looked like a banker. “You have to let it grow out, your hair is thinner on the top” the stylist apologized. I knew all too well what she meant. My hairline has steadily marched north for years, hair disappearing and cropping up unwanted in other regions of my body I would prefer to remain hairless. I don’t go in for haircuts too much these days, mostly cause my hair doesn’t seem to grow too fast anymore, and secondly because it is kind of depressing. It often seems like the hair stylist adopts the attitude of a mortician striving to make the top of my corpse head look as normal as possible, rectifying the damage sustained from a horrible scalp-peeling car wreck.

“Look at the back?” the stylist asked, handing me a mirror and spinning the chair for the double reflection. I never really want to look at this view, believing that what I don’t know can’t hurt me. But I did look, and saw pink flesh coming through where the brush has been mowed down. Looking through that shaky double reflection, the mirror slipped through my fingers, bouncing off the floor! “What’s the matter!? Don’t you like it?!” the stylist moaned. No, it’s fine! HOW COULD I EXPLAIN I SAW ABE VIGODA’S FACE ON MY BALD SPOT! And he didn’t look happy! Yikes!

I got home and rubbed my scalp along the edge of my hair line and discovered one more insult. The gel stuff the stylist put on my unaccustomed hair had nurtured a raging single zit! It throbbed and dared me to squeeze, but I couldn’t! It was too close to living hair. I worried that damaging that sensitive area would perhaps negate any chance of a return appearance of hair to that area, currently staked out by a few lonely pubic looking sentinels, whose only hope for company was a sudden breakthrough in hair revitalization technology.

On another subject, it seems the Italians are intrigued by breenishness. First, Vogue Italia, now a huge interview in Brain Twisting, which I believe is an Italian webzine. It’s in Italian though, so unless you capisco Italiano, you’ll have to make up your own translation.

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1 Comment

  1. Anonymous

     /  March 1, 2006

    Hair
    You do make my day. How sad!
    Donna Trexler

    Reply

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