My hair is going conservative. Middle aged follicles sitting on top of a body in liberal decline.
In my twenties, my hair spiked erect at the mention of the materialist conception of history especially when gelled to a cute leftie girl as we lay around her bed smoking pot and listening to The Clash's triple-album, Sandinista. Comrades!
By my thirties, the hairstyle obeyed orders like a good Stalinist, retaining its discipline and color while attached to the social properties of getting to work on time via the drudgery of mindless toil. One day, a single rebel of gray showed up, not to worry; then suddenly a full-scale revolt broke out faster than an Arab Spring.
Placations of "gray means wisdom" satisfied the ego for a while. Friends shook "the salt and pepper look suits you," women could be fooled into thinking - "silver fox" on the hunt.
Then the hair ran to ground. The collective strands turned hideously straight and dull, no amount of shampoo switches, tea tree oil applications, head rubs, cold soaks or mud baths could stop the feeling that the vitality of the once proud barnet, as the English call their hair, was gone.
I took to exercising cutbacks, buying electric clippers to shorn away the excess, buzzing it lean like a Republican thinning a welfare check. That failed. I grew it long, a weird gray limp blow dry that ended up looking like a sad old Bush, so I struck out for a longer look and ended up tapping my feet to dreadful Ted Nugent albums while airing rock guitar as a mode of stimulation. My therapist showed concern.
Bordering on depression, I noticed that the hairline was in recession, and I had the choice of stimulating it with growth products in the hope of a recovery but no. The fundamentals had changed. While the body willed for a liberal renaissance, the hair was now fixed in its ways, a conservative surrender to fate. I screamed - Obama help! We need a government program to stop hair becoming right wing. Just look at Senator Ted Cruz's barnet. It's hardcore.
Now I labor under a dome of recalcitrant hopelessness likely to swallow me as I wait for the day to arrive when I'm grandpa at a tea party wishing for the good old dialectic days when the hair conformed to rebellion. Such is life.