Male Blonding

Some years ago, my dearest friend, Harley Rees, sponsored an event he called “Male Blonding,” in which he and a bunch of his buddies watched football and had their hair dyed blond by a professional stylist. After everyone was all bleached out and liquored up, they all—half a dozen or so guys—took over a dance club and partied the night away. Now, that’s what I call a good time.

Of late, I’ve had occasion to recreate at least the first part of that event. On Sunday last, I sat in front of the TV cheering on my beloved Pittsburgh Steelers while Jen graciously applied three applications of Clairol whitening products to turn my salt and pepper hair into pure—if slightly orange—salt.

What is with this urge to change my hair color? A desire to look younger? A need to feel I can still do wild and crazy things to myself? An ambition to imbibe carcinogenic chemicals through my scalp? No doubt all of these figure into the equation, but I would say the main reason is a big “Why the fuck not?”

I spend far too much time doing things that—I, at least, believe—have a particular point. I develop syllabi and classes to teach students. I brush and floss to maintain dental hygiene. I feed the dog so she won’t chew up all my shoes. Rarely, though, do I do many things just for the hell of it. I spend most of my time doing things for a reason; I’ve dyed my hair basically because I can’t think of any reason not to.

Now, this explanation is probably a cop-out. If I thought more carefully about it or was more honest with myself, I’d realize and admit that there is a reason and it no doubt has something to do with my ongoing mini mid-life crisis. But I’d need a good reason to explore that possibility and frankly I have none.