Michael Smerconish | MR. CHROME DOME GETS
FUZZY
IT SPROUTED on Christmas
Day, though not because
I had planned it that way,
or intended it at all.
That's just the way it
began.
Christmas is obviously an atypical
day. My wife and I sleep only until the first of the kids awakens, and from the
moment one of them comes into our bedroom, nothing that follows mirrors the
usual daily routine, or even that of a weekend.
Instead of heading for the
shower, we all go downstairs for coffee and gift-opening.
That process is a lot like
Thanksgiving. It takes my wife four hours to cook a meal we eat in about four
minutes, including the moment it takes to say grace. The time it takes to open
packages? Feels like the same four minutes.
When the gift-giving had
ended this year, I decided to stay in a sweatshirt - and unshaven.
The day after Christmas, I
got into the shower but didn't draw the razor. Not for any particular reason,
and again, without a plan. I just didn't feel the need.
By Day Three, I needed to
leave the house, and at that point my joyride became a plotted course: I'd
decided to grow a beard. At least until I had to return to work.
Well, it's been two weeks.
I'm back at work, and the beard is staying. At least until my wife acknowledges
I have one. So far, she has said nothing.
I've been bald since
college, so hair decisions have been few. Five years ago, I shaved my head, and
it was one of the better things I've ever done. I only wish I'd done it sooner.
That decision was also born
of unusual circumstances. I had taken my wife to the Old Guard House Inn in
Gladwyne for dinner in honor of her birthday.
Albert Breuers, the
chef/owner, gave me some homemade schnapps as an after-dinner drink. When we left
his place, my wife - who was also the designated driver - noticed that her
then-hairdresser, Maurice, was still open for business across the street.
She said she needed to make
an appointment.
So we walked in together,
and Maurice took a look at me and suggested I come for an appointment, too.
Which is when the schnapps kicked in. I said OK.
The following Saturday, I
got my hair "done." In a salon full of Main Line women, I sat while
Maurice gave me a military-style buzz cut. Then the women voted, unanimously,
that he keep going.
When it was over, my head
was totally shaved, and I became the only man to ever pay $125 for the honor.
(My wife explained that Maurice had a reputation that commanded such prices.)
I wasn't sure how I felt
about the new me when I left. Two weeks later, I found myself in Cuba, having
dinner with Sen. Arlen Specter and Fidel Castro.
I think my new look was why
Fidel took me for a military/ CIA/Bay of Pigs organizer. Nonetheless, all I
needed was a little sun on my noggin. Once I had that, there was no looking
back.
Since then, guys
contemplating the full monty of haircuts often seek my advice, which is
fourfold:
1) Buy an anti-steam mirror.
2) Use the mirror to shave
in the shower.
3) Use a multiblade handheld
razor.
And 4) Find the right
lather. (I recommend Helan Natural's Vetiver & Rum Sapone da Barba.) I get
it online from an old-school apothecary in Chicago.
So as 2008 begins, I'm now
sporting a Seamus McCaffery up top and a Jerry Garcia down below. Actually, it
has yet to grow to that level, and I have no idea if it will. So far, it's salt
and pepper in color, so I guess that's politically correct.
I STILL HAVE some decisions
to make, such as length.
I intend to trim it somewhere
between a Pat Croce goatee and ZZ Top/Rip Van Winkle look, and I'm unsure of
how high it should grow up toward my ear.
I've yet to decide if it
will still be around when the Phils hit Clearwater. That will probably be
determined by if and when my wife acknowledges it.
You'll know it's staying
when you see my column photo change. Happy New Year. *
Listen to Michael
Smerconish weekdays 5:30-9 a.m. on the Big Talker, 1210/AM. Read him Sundays in
the Inquirer. Contact him via the Web at www.mastalk.com.