By Mike Pound
JOPLIN, Mo. —
If you are female, do me a favor and tell me if this sounds like a guy thing to you: Every time I get my haircut I forget which way my part is supposed to go.
I thought so.
Only a guy would forget which direction his hair is supposed to part. Making my forgetfulness even worse is the fact that I have had the same hairstyle since Nixon told the nation, “OK, I guess I am a crook.”
Back then, I had more hair to part. When I went to high school males were required by law to have long hair.
In those days, I only got a haircut a few times a year. I couldn’t just go get my haircut, either. First, I had to get an estimate:
“Mike, we crunched some numbers and given the time it will take and the special tools we will need to use, we can’t possibly do it for less than $50.”
My hair was a tad unruly when I was younger, is what I’m saying.
Now it’s is no longer unruly. My hair is ruly, in fact, and I get it cut at least once a month. Every time I sit down in the chair, Cindy, who began cutting my hair when it was still unruly, will wash it, start cutting and then stop and say, “Wait, which way do you part your hair?”
I will say, “I don’t know. Isn’t that your job?”
Cindy will say, “It’s your hair.”
I will say, “Oh, right. Good point.”
Usually, Cindy is able to figure out which way my hair is supposed to be parted and everything is fine. But one time many years ago Cindy parted my hair the wrong way and didn’t notice. When I got home my wife took one look at my hair and said, “You forgot again, didn’t you?”
I said “Forgot what?”
My wife shook her head, muttered “Moron” and walked away.
A female would never forget which way her hair is supposed to be parted, assuming, of course, females part their hair. This, despite the fact that your average female will change her hairstyle more times than a male person changes clothes.
Yet a male like me can look in a mirror and comb his hair the same way every day of his life and still forget which way his part runs.
On the plus side, a male like me also can recite the lineup of the 1967 St. Louis Cardinals baseball team.
It’s a question of priorities.
The thing is, I should be able to remember how my hair is parted because if it’s parted the wrong way my hair toward the back will stick up because I have something called a cowlick.
I don’t know if people use that term anymore, but when I was a kid it was a common affliction.
“Look at that boy’s hair. He sure has a cowlick, don’t he?”
Parted one way, my cowlick is only slightly noticeable. Parted the other way, I look like I have a squirrel hanging upside down on the back of my head.
I guess it could be worse, though. I could have whatever Donald Trump has on his head.
I got a haircut on Friday, and as usual Cindy, before she started cutting my hair, asked me which way I parted it.
As usual, I said, “I don’t know.”
Fortunately, Cindy was able to figure it out. After paying Cindy, I got in my car and drove home. On the way home, just for the heck of it, I rattled off the lineup for the 1967 Cardinals.