I have some beef with comb-overs. Major beef. First off, comb-overs don’t give a hoot about our planet and climate change. They Amazon Prime their Aerosol! Professional Strength Aquanet by the crate. Comb-overs are cheap (eg buying hairspray in bulk, but that’s actually pretty financially savvy. Fair enough). But why won’t they upgrade and spend a little extra money on Propecia, Rogaine, a toupee or a black ski mask? Comb-overs are abusive. They force their hair to go where they don’t want to go, and that ain’t cool. Although there was some debate, Hitler was a Comb-over. Trump is definitely a Comb-over. My ex’s father is a Comb-over, and a bathroom hog. Introduce me to a Comb-over with a good personality (I’m not superficial), and I will buy you both beers. I suspect they are like unicorns. But the big thing is, Comb-overs lack authenticity. If he can’t be real with himself, he can’t be real with you (me?), and thus he can’t be trusted. Lincoln would shake his head at comb-overs. Ain’t that the truth? When I typed “combover” into my iphone, it autocorrects to “connivers” It’s why my iphone is so smart. A comb-over will never be a come-over. I will never keep my body warm next to one even on the coldest of wintry nights. I had a conversation with my therapist about all this, had to get it out of my body. Was losing sleep about it. Was it misdirected anger? She asked to see a photo of my father. She eyed the typography of his scalp, and jotted a few notes on her yellow legal pad. “Do you think he had a comb-over, and how does that make you feel, feel, feel?” It’s not about my father, this time. It’s just I’m all mixed up, making me feel things I don’t want to feel. I am not a person of passion. I’m not that guy who will slam his fist on a Thanksgiving dinner table, and make others feel uncomfortable with crazy political or fundamental religious views. I am the girl with no opinions on anything. I smile politely and laugh at everyone’s bad jokes. I am vanilla. I am basic. It’s who I am, it’s who I’ve always been. I look at the mirror, and wonder who I’ve become. I suddenly have a voice, I actually have a strong opinion on something and it's comb-overs for Christ's sake. There is heat in my tone, and it scares me. I have to come around. Be the good girl people know me to be.
After a month, I’ve had time to think logically. Comb-overs are people too. They really aren’t hurting anyone. There are worse people out there. Like those guys that organize dog fights (Vick, I’m talking to you) or that woman who eats her Chinese lo-mein on the subway, and leaves the containers on the floor before getting off the next stop (Grandma, I’m talking to you) Or those guys who steal all the quarters, nickels and dimes in those water cooler jugs for kids with cleft lip. They are the worse! So maybe it’s best to keep perspective. Let’s be real. Maybe if I had a receding hair line, I would do the same, maybe, just maybe. And if anything, comb-overs help with my spiritual practice. It is easy to love the lovable but comb-overs stretch you to be better, to be your best. In my loudest voice, I thank you, comb-overs of the world! May I wish you well. May I wish you joy. May I wish you to accept yourself as you are.