If you read last week’s column (and I hope you did), I told you we might talk this week about why one should never offend a hairdresser if I didn’t see anyone wearing a Trump “Make Christmas Great Again” sweater. Well, I didn’t. And I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t because it could have made a great picture for Facebook.
Not that I would know how to do that. Post a picture on Facebook, I mean. I would have to know how to use the camera in my phone, which I don’t, and then upload the picture to the internet. Yes, I am that guy. I only got a smart phone so that I could call my husband in the event of an emergency and to order an Uber. Now that valet parkers ask for your cell phone number, I just tell them, “Sorry, I don’t know the number. You’ll just have to remember which car is mine.”
With folks knowing that my cell phone is rarely turned on, people are rarely late for a lunch date. And, if they are, they must call the restaurant (like we used to do), describe me to the person who answered the phone, and ask that person to pass on the message. For some reason, restaurant personnel never come up to me and ask, “Are you Bill?” When they approach me, they always know I am Craig, and I always resist asking “How did you know?”
But, if I could post a picture on Facebook, then I could post some of the better pictures from years ago. Truth be told, one of the best things to find in your Facebook feed is old pictures posted by old friends. There’s a drawer full of them (photos, not friends) in the dining room that will probably never make it to Facebook.
In my family, and probably yours, the old photographs in the family albums usually have dates on them. A very handy thing for people whose hairstyles didn’t change much over time. Up in my drawer, the photos are undated, but not to worry. Thanks to all the hairdressers I did not offend over my lifetime, I can roughly date any picture of me based on the color, styles, and size of my hair. Long and winged, one inch long and red (ginger snap with two caps of chocolate kiss—this is the one that got me a husband), permed and longer, straight and shorter, long and ponytailed, cellophaned, streaked, low lights, up, down, French twist, blond (to hide the gray), teased and tortured. I can look at a snapshot today, date it, and tell you what products were necessary, what brushes were used, and how much hairspray was required to achieve that “do.”
But when it comes to over processed hair, I take my hat off to Donald Trump—so to speak, as I almost never wear a hat. His hair (and I do think it’s his hair) is more of a mystery to me than how you make gray icing.
