HAIR BRAINED PT. 2

(Continued from HAIR BRAINED)

Believe it or not, even in my shit-kicker high school, we held senior superlative elections. For those who know nothing about high school, or like me have wisely repressed 99% of it, senior superlatives are those annoying 'Best Looking' or 'Most Spirited' honors that are conveyed upon a student by popular vote. That the contest existed at all came as quite a surprise to me, as at the time, my high school was embroiled in a shocking scandal that involved the grisly murder of a popular English teacher by both her lover, a fellow faculty member, as well as the school's shady, 'Person of Interest' principal. (Incidentally, the convicted teacher/murderer, William 'Wild Bill' Bradfield, simply ADORED me and without reservation, gave me an 'A+' in his Latin class. I shutter to think what that says about my lack of character.)

Despite the murder and the intoxicating presence of both the local police, FBI, and national press, our meager lives went on. The school year proceeded and votes for the superlatives were cast. As I was too busy getting stoned and trying to hide my sexuality by masquerading as 'arty', I didn't do the usual lobbying, brown-nosing or outright bullying other students undertook to boost their chances of receiving such a prestigious honor. I shrugged the whole thing off as 'bourgeoisie' and like any cliched gay high school kid, worked feverishly on the sets of 'DEATHTRAP, which in light of the current murder melodrama unfolding at our school was a wildly inappropriate choice for school play.

Imagine my surprise when I not only took home a senior superlative , but won the honor by a landslide! No, I didn't take home some paltry, two-bit 'Best Personality,' 'Most Spirited,' or even 'Most Likely To Succeed,' superlative. I took home the granddaddy of senior superlatives, the superlative that to this day I cherish with the fervor and sanctity one reserves for an Academy Award; 'BEST HAIR.'

As my seven-year-old, gay-bashing, Neo-Nazi son stood before me, his frizzy, chlorine damaged hair vaguely resembling Kate Gosselin's rabid possum hair 'don't' I became incensed. What right did my son have in impugning my fragile sense of sexual self in addition to my quasi-agnostic, had-my-Bar-Mitzvah-for-the-money Jewish identity? More importantly, who did he think he was questioning my impeccable Upper Merion Senior High School class of 1981 'Best Hair' senior-superlative winner credentials? The rage building inside me was palpable as my eyes bored into my son's beady little eyes. As I stared him down, I yanked my iphone theatrically from it's stylish Louis Vuitton case and quick dialed.

"Who are you calling?" my son asked.

"Hey Blane, it's Tod. Ethan's gone RED ALERT. How quickly can you get here?"

Despite my son's surfer boy bravado, I began to smell the fear on him, for It slowly dawned on him that unlike his dreary friends whose dads had the standard doctor, lawyer, and master-of-the-universe hedge fund friends, his gay, dark-haired, Jew-boy, 'Best Hair' senior superlative winner dad possessed a hoard of hair dresser friends happy to make a house call.

As the horror of his crew cut fate became clear, my son darted from the room screaming. I smiled to myself and stood perfectly still for I planned to savor the knock-down-drag-out confrontation yet to come.

(To Be Continued)