gimme a head with hair

On Sunday afternoon, I was at the supermarket to pick up a few things. I needed a head of lettuce, a bag of radishes, a cucumber. (Not for me, for Mrs. Pincus. I don't eat cucumbers in their natural form, Once they are turned into pickles, though... I'm right there!) I added a few more items to my cart before heading to the check-out line.

I queued up behind a couple who had loaded up the conveyor belt with their afternoon's grocery order. I grabbed a plastic divider, placed it behind the last item in their order and began to transfer my selections from my cart to the conveyer belt. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man take his place behind my cart. I continued my task and — in typical Josh Pincus fashion — ignored everything that was going on around me.

Then I heard the man behind me say.... something.

In these days of cellphones and Bluetooth and wireless earbuds, one can never tell who someone is speaking to. I have seen folks have lengthy conversations — complete with flailing arms and expressive hand gestures — with unseen recipients of these animated diatribes. From a distance of even a few feet, they appear to be performing some sort of pantomime skit or perhaps an interpretive dance. With this in mind, I usually assume that a stranger speaking in my general direction is having a phone conversation and not addressing me. That's what I assumed regarding the man behind me in the supermarket check-out line. However, I unconsciously glanced up while leaning over the top of my cart and looked directly at him.

He smiled at me and said, "I like your hair."

Admittedly, I was taken off-guard and I felt myself involuntarily smiling. Then, I emitted a little laugh. He smiled even more broadly and added, "You certainly have more that I do!" He pointed to the top of his own head — shiny and bald. I nodded and laughed again.

It had been a very, very long time since any stranger had paid me a compliment about my physical appearance. For many years, I colored my hair a striking, yet decidedly unnatural, red. This chosen shade became something of a "trademark" among those who knew me personally. It also served as a point of focus for strangers. I regularly received comments about my hair and its unusual hue — in restaurants, in stores, on vacation, even while just walking down the street. However, after a dozen or so years and the onslaught of inevitable hair loss, I stopped coloring my hair and let it grow into its natural gray. With each subsequent haircut, more and more of my forehead became less and less hirsute. The nice woman who cuts my hair would hand me a mirror with which to view the back of my head and assess the results of her adept scissor work. With every new haircut, the bare spot on the back of my head grew bigger and bigger and barer and barer. She always comments that my hair grows so fast, but I know she's just being nice or, perhaps, looking for a bigger tip.

So, no matter what the guy behind me in the check-out line said, there is no way that he — or anyone — genuinely "likes my hair"... at least not at this juncture of my life.

Or.... maybe.... maybe... he really liked my hair.

After I paid for my groceries, but before I made my way towards the exit, I turned to the man behind me in the check-out line and said, "You... have a good day!," with emphasis on "you."

When I got home, I related this story to Mrs. Pincus and that four-word phrase — "I like your hair" — officially entered our daily conversations, joining such stalwarts as "How was your day?" and "What should we have for dinner?"

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

red-headed stranger

This may come as a shock to you, but..... I am not a natural redhead. I know, I know — I should have prefaced my opening sentence with SPOILER ALERT, as is common internet etiquette, but, let's be honest, the color of my hair is pretty suspect.

Every six or so weeks, I find myself at a hair salon covered with a big vinyl smock. A young lady slathers my head with a mixture from a tube selected from the far end of their wall-length pallet of hair color. My particular shade comes from a supply that goes untouched between my month-and-a-half visits. After approximately an hour (including the application and a brief, motionless sit under the artificially-intense heat of a dryer plus a trim of what little hair I have left), the look that has become familiar to family, friends and coworkers returns and everything is back to normal. No more gray-tinged roots to throw off the delicate balance and long-time branding that is Josh Pincus.

One recent morning, I was at the train station at the end of my suburban street, awaiting another late train to take me into Philadelphia for work. I removed my cellphone from my pocket and punched up the inaccurate app that was created by SEPTA, the entity that operates the public transportation services in Southeastern Pennsylvania. Reading a report of a mere "two minutes behind schedule," I shoved the phone back into my pocket and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a glimpse of bright red-orange on the station platform about ten feet away from me. I turned my head in the direction of the fiery color. Leaning against a railing that runs the perimeter of the wooden-planked platform, was a tall woman in a beige cloth coat, her gloved hand gripping the handle of a large, leather briefcase. Upon first look, she fit the description of thousands of women seen everyday in the workforce. Except this woman's head was crowned with a coiffure of blazing crimson. A startlingly unnatural color. A color that was very familiar to me.

The woman at the salon who colors my hair has assured me, on many occasions, that I am the sole consumer of that hue. Sometimes, we have even joked about it, sarcastically wondering why anyone else would ever want that color. But now, here I was standing less than a bus-length from someone who has raided my personal hair dye stash.

I thought for sure that everyone at the train station was staring at me and then shifting their eyes to the woman with the briefcase. It was different and way more uncomfortable than showing up at a wedding wearing the exact same dress as the mother of the bride. I knew there was whispering and covert pointing going on behind my back. "They must be related!," I imagined was the exchange in hushed tones between passengers standing along the outside darkened corners of the stone station building. The woman with the briefcase just stood, every-so-often turning her glance towards the empty train tracks, anticipating the arrival of the 7:52. She was oblivious to the silent mockery that flowed through the assembled crowd.

The train was taking forever to arrive. All the while, I could hear murmurs of conversation, snippets of which included "hair," "redhead," color" and "unnatural." I didn't want to turn around. I couldn't. Although I see most of these people every single day, I don't really know any of them. But there they were, passing judgement on me and my choices about my appearance. I couldn't approach the redheaded woman with the briefcase. I didn't know her either. Besides, that would just be weird.

Suddenly, the train pulled into view and chugged up to a stop at the station. Everyone made their way into a rough, irregular queue line and began to board. The woman with the briefcase took her place in line a few folks behind me.

The platform was now empty. Everyone who was waiting was now on the train.

And of course, there was no conversation about my hair, the woman with the briefcase's hair, or anything else related to the two of us.

At least, I don't think there was.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

almost cut my hair

After a huge Italian meal, we did the next logical thing. We went to get doughnuts. So, we waved goodbye to my brother and sister-in-law as we exited the restaurant and drove to a Krispy Kreme not too far from our house.

It was around 9 o'clock in the evening and Oxford Avenue was dark and quiet. We parked in the nearly-empty Krispy Kreme lot and walked in. One young lady was shuffling trays into the glass displays behind the service counter and a man in a hairnet silently presided over the winding conveyor belt, surveying the contingency of plump, holed pastries passing under the viscous waterfall of sugary glaze. A booth in the far corner was occupied by two men who looked as though they were nursing the same cup of coffee for several weeks. Aside from that, the place was deserted.

We studied the various baked choices and considered several of the holiday-themed offerings (two-tiered doughnuts frosted like snowmen and glazed gingerbread crullers). Suddenly, Mrs. P's hair got yanked. Immediately, she suspected me — but, in the thirty years I've known her, I have never felt the need nor desire to yank her long locks. Then, she thought it may have been an acquaintance who entered through another door and recognized her from afar.

Nope. It was none of those.

It was a short woman in a dirty sweater, lipstick smeared haphazardly across her mouth, a knit cap stretched and pulled too far down on her head.. The woman was pulling her splayed fingers through my wife's hair.

"When was the last time you cut your hair?," she squawked, her overly red lips curled in a leer. 

My wife recoiled in horror. "I'm thinking of cutting it right now!," she gagged out her reply, "Or washing it, at the very least!"

"Oh no, no, no.," the woman continued, her mouth bent in a crooked half-smile, "Your hair is so long and beautiful. How long has it been since you cut it?" She reached out in an attempt to grab another mittfull of my spouse's lengthy tresses. My wife cringed and stepped further back, nearly pressing her back against the glass display cases.

Finally, the woman gave up her barrage of questions, released Mrs. P's hair and started towards the exit — still muttering about long hair and haircuts. My wife was visibly distressed, pacing about and shaking her head, trying the rid herself of any residual filth this woman may have left in her free-form manual combing of my wife's mane.

"Who does that?," Mrs. P exclaimed, "Who touches another person's hair? Who feels it's their right to touch another person? Who grabs and pulls a stranger's hair?" She was simultaneously angry and nauseous. She hurried me along in my baked goods selection, saying she was anxious to get home and scrub the memory of that creep out of her scalp. I paid for our purchase and we sped home to a waiting and healing bottle of shampoo.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Knotted, polka-dotted, twisted, beaded, braided

Sometime during the course of 2005, I decided to start coloring my hair. My natural medium brown was now giving way to some gray. And then some more gray. So, after a few threats, I went ahead and took the plunge. I dyed my hair jet black. I went to work the next day and, while dispensing a cup of coffee for myself in the company cafeteria, a co-worker sidled in close to me and asked: "Did you dye your hair?"

With the blankest of expressions on my face, I replied, "Um, yesterday my hair was brown. What do you think?"

And so began a new era in sarcasm from ol' Josh Pincus.

On my next haircut appointment I made the decision to go red. Not just any red. A unique red. The most unnaturally fake red you've ever seen. This is special-order red that no one else requests, save for the occasional circus clown. A red that called for a distinctive set of comebacks to be dispersed whenever I was asked about the color of my hair. I created a mental inventory of sass with an internal filing system, triggered by key words used by the overly curious who don't know how to mind their own fucking business.

I color my hair to stand out; to give an impression and to be remembered. "Hey, y'know that guy with the red hair?" is quite common at my place of employment and everyone knows that the reference is to me. But, there are tactful ways of delivering an inquiry without stating the obvious ("Gee, your hair is really red!") or becoming insulting ("What's up with the hair, dude?"). This is where sarcasm becomes a faux ginger's secret weapon.

One of the first victims of my arsenal of snide retorts was actor Ernie Hudson. Among his many film roles, Ernie is best known as "Winston Zeddemore," the Ghostbuster who wasn't Bill Murray or Dan Aykroyd. Ernie was one of a few dozen celebrities signing autographs at a horror film convention that I attended. I stood in a fairly long line as Mr. Hudson, clad in his familiar tan ghostbusting jumpsuit, greeted fans and posed for pictures. Soon, I arrived at the front of the queue. I smiled and shook Ernie's hand and told him that I was a big fan of Ghostbusters. (I wasn't. I actually hate that movie.) Ernie studied my recently tinted coiffure and said, "Is that your real hair color?" Quickly, I looked Ernie straight in the eye and answered, "No, it's a side effect of chemotherapy." Ernie gulped and offered an apologetic smile coupled with a nervous laugh.

"Nah, I'm just fucking with you, Ernie.," I said, as I laughed right back at him. He looked relieved, shook my hand, and realized that he was just the victim of a gruesome joke. He posed for a photo and called me a jerk as we parted company. He was a good sport.

Recently, my wife and I ate at a local diner. After taking our order, the overly friendly waitress giggled and asked me, "Is that your natural hair color?"

"This?," I began, pointing to my head and gearing up to unleash a biting zinger, "This is no one's natural hair color." 

Caught off-guard, she stumbled over her next few sentences, trying to justify her question, but not making any sense at all. "Just bring me my pancakes, sister.," I thought to myself, "You're lucky I've retired the cancer remark."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com