A Baby Boomer gets a haircut

Last Thursday my 17-year-old son Brandon and I were sitting in the den watching "Community" when, during a break, he turned to me and said: "Dad, I think it's time you got a haircut."

If you live long enough, pigs will fly, Donald Trump will act humble, Lena Dunham will keep her top on, and Wayne LaPierre will voluntarily submit to distemper shots.

In the late "'60s/early 70's, when I was adolescing, it was parents from the "Greatest Generation" who told— more often begged, pleaded, demanded, insisted— their Baby Boomer kids to get a haircut. When did the world change?

Cover-up

For me it began the day I went to get my driver's license picture taken. When I looked closely, I saw a 62-year-old geezer with sunken eyes, dark circles, shriveled skin, minimalist hair, and a weary paleness that begged for a rocking chair and warm buttermilk.

No, I am not describing the official Pennsylvania state license photographer (although he looked like that too). It's what I saw in the picture affixed to my new driver's license.

The best way to deal with such unsightliness, I concluded, was to cover as much of it as possible. But how?

As cover-ups go, the Dance of the Seven Veils was too cumbersome. So I opted for a beard. Thus a month and a half (and a couple of applications of dark brown Just for Men) later, the first Perry Block beard of the 21st Century was born.

Return to hippiedom

Now, to me, as well as to many of my contemporaries, a beard equals long hair. So I began to let it grow, even though 1) long hair wouldn't work with my old face and 2) I didn't have enough on top to carry longer hair on the sides, so I'd wind up looking like Clarabelle the Clown from the "Howdy Doody Show" of my youth.

But I persisted, aided by a myriad of hair thickening products and the resurrection of a dormant hair dryer. Over time, as my hair grew, I did indeed begin to think I'd achieved my latter-day return to hippie dippie freakdom.

That is, until Brandon told me to get a haircut.

"But why?" I asked, mystified. Do I not look retro-'60s? Do I not look ... dare I say... cool?"

"Yes, Dad, you look retro-'60s for a guy in his 60s. Cool? I'll leave that up to a woman in her 60s."

Standing tall

"I take it you're saying either the long hair doesn't work with my older-looking face, or I don't have enough on top to carry the longer sides."

"Yes, Dad, both of those. For starters."

"I think I see the problem," I said. "You're assuming that my longer hair is some kind of political statement, which it is not."

"Dad, long hair hasn't been a political statement since, well... since you had enough of it. And the only political statement your hair could possibly make is "'Seize the Power of the Condo Association!'"

So the generational battle line was drawn. Would I stand tall, or would I sell out to the Man... or in this case, to the boy?

Each of us confronts his moment of truth sooner or later. This was my moment.

"I'll get a haircut, Brandon, when I'm good and ready," I informed him firmly.

"How about 9:30 tomorrow morning?" said Brandon, picking up the phone and beginning to dial.

"I won't be good and ready, "I replied steadfastly, "until at least 10:30. Maybe not even till 11."

My generation once fought for Civil Rights and peace in Vietnam. It's reassuring to discover that, when the going gets rough, we haven't abandoned our principles.