The Follicles of Man
Having successfully evaded the clutches of an office meeting last week, today I went gentle into that good noon. Two factors kept me from raging against the dying of the &c: 1) this meeting was only one hour long, not three; and 2) I was getting tired of frozen lunches and quite fancied a spot of free pizza. I made a point of loading up my soggy paper plate as fully as my diet would allow because there is not (as the aphorism goes) any such thing as a free lunch. Every bit of pesto and roasted chicken was paid for with an extra minute of droning corporate tedium. I selected a seat in the back of the conference room where I could rest my head back against the wall, but after the first half hour I made a point of sitting upright lest I be gradually lulled into an embarrassing snooze.
In the middle of the part about the plans for the Project Management Training Committee (something which will not in a million years have any bearing on my job nor ever serve as the basis for a big-budget thriller starring Keanu Reeves or his heirs or assigns), as my eyes were threatening to glaze over for good, I was snapped suddenly back to sharp attention because of a sudden intriguing discovery. Looking around the room I discovered that I might well be the only man in the office with a full head of hair. I’m sure there must be some guys here who don’t have bald spots, but if so they weren’t in my line of sight. I was stunned to find several fellows much younger than myself – at least one still in his twenties – with ‘dos artfully arranged to cover the little haloes of scalp at their crowns. I was particular pleased in the case of the guy in his twenties. I think of him as the Shoulder-Hoverer, for his habit of creeping up behind me and commenting obnoxiously upon whatever happens to be on my screen or typing stand. He quite annoyed me that way last week, in an incident the particulars of which are too involved to go into here. It’s absurd, I know, but I felt the profound satisfaction of an obscure revenge in spotting the way he’d thatched over the empty spot with gelled strands. I was moved to think of the many ways I’ve been vexed by or neglectful of my parents over the years, and it struck me that I have much to thank them for, not least of all the fact that my scalp remains fully clad as I embark upon my forties. Hair stuff's from the mother’s side, right? Thanks, Mom!
These observations quite buoyed me through the rest of the hour. Every time I started to feel the grasping arms of Morpheus, I’d wake myself by looking around the room for a bald spot I hadn’t already noted. There was always another one. The last twenty minutes only seemed to take about an hour. In staff meeting time that's lightning fast, the rule of thumb being 20 minutes = 2.5 hours. I’ll have to remember this the next time I let myself get dragooned into one of these things. It’s either that or try to pick out the people who dress even worse than I do, and I’m not sure how much time that would pass.
In the middle of the part about the plans for the Project Management Training Committee (something which will not in a million years have any bearing on my job nor ever serve as the basis for a big-budget thriller starring Keanu Reeves or his heirs or assigns), as my eyes were threatening to glaze over for good, I was snapped suddenly back to sharp attention because of a sudden intriguing discovery. Looking around the room I discovered that I might well be the only man in the office with a full head of hair. I’m sure there must be some guys here who don’t have bald spots, but if so they weren’t in my line of sight. I was stunned to find several fellows much younger than myself – at least one still in his twenties – with ‘dos artfully arranged to cover the little haloes of scalp at their crowns. I was particular pleased in the case of the guy in his twenties. I think of him as the Shoulder-Hoverer, for his habit of creeping up behind me and commenting obnoxiously upon whatever happens to be on my screen or typing stand. He quite annoyed me that way last week, in an incident the particulars of which are too involved to go into here. It’s absurd, I know, but I felt the profound satisfaction of an obscure revenge in spotting the way he’d thatched over the empty spot with gelled strands. I was moved to think of the many ways I’ve been vexed by or neglectful of my parents over the years, and it struck me that I have much to thank them for, not least of all the fact that my scalp remains fully clad as I embark upon my forties. Hair stuff's from the mother’s side, right? Thanks, Mom!
These observations quite buoyed me through the rest of the hour. Every time I started to feel the grasping arms of Morpheus, I’d wake myself by looking around the room for a bald spot I hadn’t already noted. There was always another one. The last twenty minutes only seemed to take about an hour. In staff meeting time that's lightning fast, the rule of thumb being 20 minutes = 2.5 hours. I’ll have to remember this the next time I let myself get dragooned into one of these things. It’s either that or try to pick out the people who dress even worse than I do, and I’m not sure how much time that would pass.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 5:38 PM
1 Comments:
My dad, who's in his seventies, also has a full head of hair (think of Ronald Reagan's hairline), which bodes well for Baby Dog's future follicular bounty.
xoxo,
Mama Dog
Post a Comment
<< Home