Wading in the Velvet Sea

And what better subject for a close reading than my hair line.

Oft-maligned, oft-torn at (which probably explains my current state), it’s always just bugged me. And for the last few years, I’ve done just about everything to prevent this catastrophe from being too evident. Of course in doing so I drew more attention to the problem at hand. Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we?

Picture 1: Childhood

My parents were in denial about the breakup of the Beatles, I guess, and thus we have this little moptop. I can’t be more than three or so here, my brother maybe 6 months or so. (My mother will kill me for not knowing this.) Anywho, we can see a rare sight---a full, thick, luxurious head of hair. I’m a frickin’ Pantene Pro-V commercial here. I’ve got overalls, it’s been a hard day’s night, the whole nine yards.

Picture 2: High School

Well, here we see the beginnings of some problems. My bangs seem to be sponsored by Ocean Spray, given that it’s emulating their logo. It doesn’t of course help that I am currently in my “awkward stage” at this point in my life (which, by my calculations, ended sometime last week). And God help, me, I can’t even name the girl in this photo with me. Being a complete jerk to women obviously started in high school, which then paved the way for my college exploits detailed HERE.

Picture 3: Post-College

I’d show you a picture of me in college, except I’m wearing a hat in almost every single one of them. Jesus, look how far I’ve fallen. This is a Mark Hamill, "Luke Sykwalker to soft core porn" type fall. Like Billy Joel, I apparently age in dog years. (I think Billy Joel lost the Ring of Power in about 2001 and pulled a Bilbo Baggins, aging 40 years in about 8 months soon after. Damn, I promised myself I wouldn’t make a Tolkein reference.)

This is a great picture to demonstrate “The Island of Solitude”, that tiny little tuft of hair in my forehead doggedly determined to not join its brethren and jump ship. Such a cute little patch. When I could count individual hairs there, that’s how I knew it was time to get a haircut. Every time at the hair salon was the same:

Me: Make me look like Dave Matthews.
Barber: ***Collapses into a heap, laughing hysterically***

Except for this one exchange:

Me: Yea, little off the top, no sideburns, thin on the sides.
Barber: (in a thick accent) You know, the hair, when it fall off your head, it-a grow again on your back!!!

And society dictates that I have to tip this man. Good grief.

So, of course, I grow as much hair on my face as I can without looking like Kenny Loggins or Eddie Rabbit (Do you love a rainy night? I sure do.) This of course, I feel, will conceal the triangle of doom that is my receding hairline, cutting off that follicle island from the hairline shore. It’s not as bad as the Michael Bolton mullet technique, but it’s close.

Picture 4: Ryan Joins the Circus

For a few months I joined Cirque de Soleil. I welcomed the chance to wear clothing so audacious that I couldn’t possibly have my hairline gawked at. Sadly, I was unable to actually perform in any of the acts once they learned that I hadn’t touched my toes since 1983. I tired to sell them on an act where I would juggling flaming kittens, but they sicced Bob Barker on my ass and I has to hightail it out of there. Sadly, a monster truck rally was next door, and I got the living snot beat out of me by 5 guys named Bubba and one woman named, well, Bubba.

Picture 5: Ryan Gets His Groove Back and Summarily Runs It Over With a John Deere Riding Lawnmower

16 self-help books later, I decided true follicle bueaty comes from within. After 6 surgeries to remove the hair from my internal organs (self-actualization’s a bitch, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise), I decided that I would have fun no matter what. I said goodbye to my forehead soul patch and made it baby-butt smooth. (As opposed to Santana, 7'’ from the midday sun smooth. These are important distinctions to make.) I remembered how much I loved to dance. I got down with my badself. It didn’t matter what the music was, what the crowd was, how many cops were dragging me away, I danced. I figure I had a career here. I called up Chippendale’s for an interview. I think it’s cuz my name’s not “Lance” or “Escobar”. (OK, “Escobar McGee” has a great ring to it. I’m off to get my name changed.) I could only figure it was the goatee holding me back. And so…

Picture 6: Ryan Takes Over Hollywood

Here I am after sealing my 7 picture deal with Dreamworks Pictures. Hair trimmed, goatee gone, smiles a plenty. I luckily struck at the right time; thanks to Hollywood synergy, roughly 18 scripts were being developed about young guys prematurely balding who get to save the world from an asteroid/volcano/Anna Nicole Smith and I get to start in all of them. Why? I think it has everything to do with all the crystal meth I was taking while in LA that let me have all these delusions. Moxie is not only a great person, but an LA drug lord. God love her.

Picture 7: Ryan Finally Makes It

Here I am, at my very first night at Chippendale’s. At here the tale is concluded. From a proto-Beatle to a male stripper working for $3.50 an hour plus the ability to rub against the fat, sweaty, menopausal Middle-Class America. Nad there’s the lesson for you all.

What, you need me to spell it out for you? Isn’t it obvious?

Bueller?