Another wonderful week has passed by in a flash so sudden that I didn't even have time to blink before it was recorded like a photo stored in some forgotten mental album. There are a number of pictures there, many of which have since been sent through the photo-editing software of memory and changed to better suit the ego or to match the so-called facts.

Concerning actual photographs, I recently saw some photos taken of me at a recent event and, believe it or not, I once again was shocked at how I looked. In fact, if I hadn't known they were being taken, I might not have recognized myself.

I see myself every morning and every night and sometimes other times in between, but the mirror isn't half as honest as a photograph taken from someone else's perspective.

In fact, it was after one such photo that I opted to cut off most of my hair in a fashion that makes it much easier to care for. After all, if it's barely there, why waste time combing and fussing over it? It's also been cheaper, since I cut it at home and don't need a barber.

It might seem like I'm a little obsessed with this issue, especially after having written about it only a few months ago. Maybe I am, but I couldn't begin to convey to you how different some of these images look from the vision I have of myself. I was reading a newspaper the other day and saw a photo of a fellow younger than me with grey hair just around the edges and a nice shiny scalp on top. I thought, "Wow, he looks old."

Apparently, the pot was calling the kettle black in this instance. For, while my hair retains it's confused blonde and brown fusion with no sign of white that I've noticed, it has given up ground. If my head were a battlefield, I would say that my hair isn't holding the high ground, but has fallen back to a more defensive position around the perimeter. If it were a mountain, I would say Stone Mountain might be a good model—no snow, but not many trees either.

However, I don't really see myself accurately when I'm doing the looking. Maybe it's because I see myself up close and face to face, which is much different from standing eight feet away and shooting a picture down from the top. It's all just a matter of coming to grips with reality—getting the self image and the photo image lined up and overlapped. It's about realizing that what I look like doesn't change who I am.

But that still doesn't keep me from being shocked when I see a photo. It's like my uncle who, for the majority of his adult life, wore a hat and kept a big 1950s-looking ‘swoop' of hair sticking out the front of it, but had no hair underneath the hat. The hats usually said "Red Man," but maybe "Denial" would have been more appropriate.

Deep down, it's probably all related to an innate fear of aging, of watching life pass by like that flash I talked about earlier. I look back over the years and think to myself, "That seems like only yesterday."

You know, the first thought that came to my mind after seeing the picture was, "Why not just shave the whole mess and be done with it?" If I keep thinking that, I may do it.

Well, my conscious mind replies, that's because you don't want to saddle yourself with the added burden of shaving the top of your head along with your face every morning. In fact, I've occasionally grown a beard just to keep from shaving. How lazy is that? No one wants to go through life like a prickly plucked chicken.

Maybe I could use that chemical stuff women use on their legs and just polish my head like a cue ball. Then again, that stuff I took the paint out of the bathtubs with would work, but I might end up destroying most of my brain at the same time. Whether or not that would be a great loss is much like that aforementioned photograph. It depends on your perspective in the situation. As for the man in the mirror, he thinks it's a terrible idea.

In making the case for keeping my mind, I've had a few more leads on the place I'm working on, so I need to stay sharp at least until this deal is finished. I'm the only thing between the house and completion. That's usually the case with most of my problems—I come to the realization that I am the thing in any given situation that I find myself bemoaning. At least I can blame the hair thing on genetics.

In one way, the problems I create may indeed be the best ones, inasmuch as I can fix them without bothering anyone else. All I need to do is buckle down and get it done, just like I told myself last week. In my own very healthy, non-schizophrenic manner, I often chide myself and prompt better performance.

Maybe my hair isn't falling out, maybe I'm pulling it out with anxiety, I pondered. That's generally when I bring out one of those end-alls, like, "Let's just quit all this thinking and start working."

As middle aged men respond to their longings for youth by buying an over-priced sports car and driving around with the top down all the while thinking their portrait hasn't changed in 40 years, I realize that no one's going to care in another 40—not even me. Revelation brings clarity, but a ‘68 Camaro SS convertible wouldn't hurt, either.
 

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