My eyesight is pretty bad without my glasses. They’re not quite Coke bottles — but they’re close.
Most days, I lament my near-sightedness, and all those ads for LASIK catch my attention.
But on this day, Dec. 27, 2012, for the first time in my life, I was thankful for the impairment. As I sat in the hairdresser’s torture chamber — with my sister and mother looking on — I couldn’t see the locks fall away as her scissors severed them from my noggin. Instead, I just stared into the blurry abyss, my hands a sweaty mess under the apron.
It was finished in less than 15 minutes. And I must have asked my sister 10 times whether she liked it. Then, when the hairdresser seemed satisfied, she handed me my glasses. As my vision jumped back into focus, I stared into the mirror. For the first time in 16 years, the reflection staring back at me didn’t have long, black hair framing his face.
It’s a drastic change and one I had been considering for years — and much more seriously for the past six months.
The week before we opened the Plant City Observer in June, my wife, two children and I drove to Houston, Texas, for a family emergency. My grandfather had been taken to the hospital, and at the time, we didn’t know how much time he had left.
We made the 16-hour trip in one day, arriving at my mother’s house near midnight. The next morning, I stood at the foot of a hospital bed. Somewhere, hidden under snakes of tubes and beeping machines, was my grandfather. With so many things attached to his face, he couldn’t talk. But he was alert enough to listen.
For 16 years, my grandfather grilled me about my hair.
Mikey, he’d say. When are you going to cut your hair, boy? Golly! You look like a girl!
When I lived in Missouri, I’d tell him I needed it to keep me warm. That excuse was rendered invalid the second I arrived in the Sunshine State 12 years ago.
I grabbed a hold of my grandfather’s hand, and he squeezed back, letting me know he knew we were there. I told him about the new newspaper, about his great-grandkids.
And, when I felt there wasn’t anything more to say, I blurted out: And Grandpa, I’m going to cut my hair.
Grandpa turned his head to me, and I could see him smiling from underneath the oxygen mask. He started kicking his feet, too, which made all of us giggle.
It was settled, then. No turning back.
Since that visit, my grandfather was able to leave the hospital. He’s at home but requires 24-hour care. He’s comfortable — for the most part — and still can enjoy a piece of his favorite pie now and then.
I couldn’t wait to show him my new “do.”
“That’s the way I like to see you, Mikey,” he said, smiling.
My grandfather is at the point in which all the nurses can do is keep him comfortable. He spends his days in a hospital bed, and my uncle and aunt work in shifts to be with him every day. We don’t know how much longer he’ll be with us, and honestly, I would have shaved it all off completely if that’s what he wanted.
A few days later, I posted the before-and-after photos on Facebook.
OMG, said my stepmother.
I’ve not seen news this big since Metallica cut their hair, added my brother-in-law.
Wow! said one of my former drum instructors. Looks nice. You look like an adult now.
And my favorite, courtesy of my favorite mother-in-law: Finally!
It’s been two weeks since the cut, and I’m still getting used to it. I still use way too much shampoo, and every time I pull on a shirt, my habit is to reach behind to pull the hair over the collar. After we returned to Plant City, I battled a few days of identity crisis — somehow I felt like a part of my being had been snipped off in the process. It’s untrue, of course, and my wife put it best: You’re more than long hair, aren’t you?
I sure hope so.
And for those who are wondering, yes, my ponytail is on its way to the Locks of Love organization, where it will be made into a hairpiece for children battling long-term medical hair loss. Hopefully, it can bring some joy and comfort to someone who needs it much more than I do.