Saturday, May 4, 2019 will go down in history.
And by history, I mean my own personal history.
It started just like any other day, although the weekend weather was pretty fantastic – something we haven’t been able to say much since about last August.
My wife and I had an event we took our dog Mac to in Geneva. I really wanted to get out on the motorcycle, with the weather being so mice. But we had this event we wanted to attend first.
I got into the shower late, so I was in quite a rush. After showering I got dressed and took my usual 10 minutes or so trying to figure out which color of Converse tennis shoes best matched the shirt I had picked out.
Then it was time to do my hair.
Now, my hair has always meant a lot to me – too much at times. I had long hair in high school, and flipped it around like a fashion model with a tic. It annoyed my friends, my teachers, my parents and probably pretty much everyone. But boy, I did love my hair.
It was as a teen on Saturday, Oct. 18, 1980, that I had the best hair day of my life. As was the style, I permed my hair back in the day (well, my mom did while I complained), and it had been just enough time that the perm had loosened the perfect amount. That day the stars aligned, and my balance of shampoo, conditioner and masterful comb work produced the best hair day of my life.
It was a proud moment.
Well, on May 5 the stars aligned again and I pulled off probably my best post-50 hair day. For some reason, my now thin, lifeless white hair (ignore that growing bald spot on the crown, please!) came to life and looked fantastic as I added the finishing touch of hairspray. Even my wife marveled at how full my hair seemed as it built to a wonderfully masculine yet non-threatening mound atop my nog.
I strutted around that day like John Travolta at the beginning of “Saturday Night Fever.” With that perfect hair, I was untouchable, unstoppable and unflappable. I was pretty much “un” everything you can think of, except unattractive – my great hair day made sure of that.
Once we got home, it was an easy decision to make that I would not be riding my motorcycle on that day. Yes, the weather was perfect. Yes, I had friends out enjoying some great riding. Yes, I have a motorcycle payment the size of the GNP of many small countries so I should ride it every chance I get.
But no, I did not ride. What fool would put a helmet on that perfect hair? Not this fool, I will tell you that.
Instead, I opted to stay within posing distance of any mirror in the house. Checking and re-checking to make sure this was not some hair dream I was having. We had good friends over that night to eat and have adult beverages, and my hair was the star of the evening.
I went to bed knowing the next morning the dream would be over, but the hair gods looked favorably on me and I woke up with almost perfect hair … again! How was this possible? I would say it was a mix of divine intervention and a ton of hairspray.
Alas, my great hair eventually remembered that it is now worthless and weak and returned to its previous limp mess by Monday.
But the memory of this glorious hair day victory will live on. If not in the memories of the people of the northern Illinois, at least in the more than 200 pictures I took of my hair that day.
