I don't have cool, wavy hair. It can't be slicked back or combed over. Women don't run their fingers through my hair. They pat it and say, "Wow, it's so... puffy." Like a cotton ball. Or the way a cloud looks like it would feel.
My hair is thick and grows straight up. In a nutshell — come to think of it, my hair looks like a nutshell — I am the human equivalent of a Chia pet. Just add water. Ch-ch-ch-chia!
When it's time to get a haircut, my hair doesn't need a stylist. It needs a lawn mower. I don't go to salons. I go to barber shops, usually named "Dave's" or "Bob's" with the red, white, and blue poles outside. In college, I went to a place called "Snip It or Clip It." That was more than I needed. I'd probably be fine at a Petco.
I've tried growing my hair out, but that's exactly what it does: grows. out. Never falls. Never shags. If I keep going, I won't look like Fabio or an 80s rocker. I'll look like Bob Ross.
So, I do what most people do with this type of hair: buzz it off. Every 4-6 weeks, go out and mow the grass. I get a two all around. Maybe 1 on the sides, 2 on the top if I'm feeling extra suave. It's the kind of haircut seen commonly at a local kindergarten.
After a haircut, I've never had someone say, "Woah. Sick 'do!" or, "I'm diggin' the look." Nope. People say things like, "Hey, high and tight!" Or assume I've joined the military.
But the older I get, the more I notice how consistent every other dude's haircut seems to be and how mine remains on a lunar cycle from buzz cut to Bob Ross and back again. No one else's hair reaches the "waxing gibbous" stage. And I wouldn't be surprised if people think I’m secretly a werewolf.
Around eight or nine years ago, I started to feel self-conscious about my haircut. Or lack of a big boy haircut. I mean this with no offense to my buzz-cut brethren (sounds like a militia), but every time I'd get a buzz-cut, I could hear my reflection say, "When are you gonna grow up?" Other guys entering their 30s were launching their mature, GQ phase of life. I was stuck in my high school basketball photo. If I'm in a job interview going against the well-groomed guy, the employer looks at that guy and thinks, "I could see him running the company." They look at me and think, "Hey, my dog got that same haircut yesterday."
But what other options are there? If I go short on the sides, long on the top I look like a bella mushroom. A fade I'm trying too hard. Anything involving "hair gel" or "product" I feel like I need a new personality. Plus I'd need to start showering every day... Maybe I could be a hat guy? Cubs baseball cap. Shower a few times a week. Make one failed attempt per decade at a fedora.
And you know what, at least with the buzz cut, people assume I'm humble and don't spend much time in front of a mirror. I've got that "it looks like he just rolled out of bed" approachability. I may never be featured in a shampoo commercial, but I also don't need very much shampoo. I don't have a cool haircut, but it does keep me cool in the summer.
Or maybe I DO have a cool haircut. The year 2023 was the biggest year in buzz-cut history (outside of World War 2). We had the best basketball player in the world, the leading heartthrob musician, and Taylor Swift's Boyfriend all rocking buzz cuts. Maybe I held onto the stock long enough and the payoff was finally here. I officially had the world's coolest haircut!
I also had a kid. What was the point of dwelling on any of this? Dads shouldn't be thinking about a new look. They should be thinking about New Balance shoes. It's not about the hairs on my head, it's about protecting every hair on his.
But it kept sinking in. You're gonna be 35. You've got a kid. A mortgage. And the same haircut you had at Adams Elementary School. It's time for a big boy haircut...
That's when I saw a Talenti Gelato commercial. Bradley Cooper is the celebrity spokesman and when he showed up on screen, I thought to myself, "Wait a second. That hair's going straight up. Short on the sides. I feel like that's... possible?"
It was a lofty goal. At the time of this commercial viewing, my hair was in the Full Moon stage. If I go gray, I'll resemble a dandelion puffball. But that's alright. Everyone needs a good before and after photo. I grabbed my phone and booked an appointment at the barbershop. This time, no more Mr. Buzz Cut.
I'd only attempted this type of departure two other times. Once back in high school when my mom's hair stylist tried something with hair gel and my buddy Jenkins said, "You look like an orange peel." It was a remarkably accurate description.
The other time was during college. I brought a photo of Ryan Gosling into a Great Clips and asked if she could do something like that. Holding back laughter she said, "Yeah, no. Yeah, you're not. Yeah, no." Been getting buzz cuts ever since.
I couldn't print a photo again. Couldn't handle that potential humiliation. I had to play it cool. Be nonchalant. When I sat down in the chair, my barber put the black cape around me, and right when he was headed over to the clippers I said, "I'm gonna attempt something new today. Gonna try for my first adult haircut."
Then, like Ron Burgundy casually pulling out his flute at the jazz club, I reached for my phone. Oh, I don't know, maybe something like this... And pointed to an extremely specific screenshot from a gelato commercial.
Held my breath. Waited for the, "Yeah, no." But instead was met with a confident head nod. He explained his plan of attack and that we'd end up using a "hair paste" at the end. Hair... paste? Like tomato paste for hair? Who knew! My whole life I thought there was only hair gel and you could either slick your hair back like Pat Riley or spike it up like Guy Fieri. It was either Showtime or Flavor Town. No in-between.
Haircut finishes up. Hair paste goes in. I looked in the mirror and my first feeling was one of comfort. Hey... that's me. I don't know what I was expecting, but I felt like by abandoning my childhood haircut I'd be abandoning my childhood. Or that I'd spin around in the chair and lose my entire sense of humor. All of these years, I've liked making fun of my haircut. I like saying I'm the human equivalent of a Chia pet. I'm not the Fonz. I'm not Steve Harrington. I'm not the dapper guy who says, "Hey, watch the hair." It's a weird thing to say, and I'm almost sure that I mean it, but I'd rather make someone smile with my Great Clips Ryan Gosling photo story than actually look like Ryan Gosling.
Then I felt a sense of relief. I wasn't Bradley Cooper in a gelato commercial but I also wasn't hair gel a lot o'. It didn't look like I was trying too hard. Or had a midlife crisis. I could totally pull this off. My sense of relief turned into a wave of confidence. Hey, that's ME! I've got a big boy haircut now.
That confidence lasted right up until my first Zoom call. I logged on nervous with first day of school jitters. Expecting some sort of roast to take place. The result? Nothing. Turns out haircuts fly under the radar when you're not going from Garfunkel to Garth Brooks. From Bob Ross to Bob Loss.
My wife's reaction mirrored my own. First was a little bit of sadness. I'm gonna miss the poof. Thirteen years together, she's been part of over a hundred werewolf moon cycles. She ran the clippers back when $20 meant a lot more to our budget and was certainly too much for a simple buzz cut.
But then came the wave of comfort. And relief. And an, "Okay. Okay. I can get used to this." Followed by a, "You look like... an adult." When you get married as young as we did, you quite literally grow up together. We've shared all these big life milestones. Dog. Condo. Baby. And now my first big boy hair cut. At 34 years old.
I went to bed that night feeling like a new man, but still feeling like the same guy. Woke up the next morning, touched my head, and thought to myself, "Crap. I probably need to shower..."
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