Beautiful how

The Psalmist asks: why do the wicked prosper and the righteous suffer? In my life, in this moment, the cry becomes: why do the beautiful prosper? They have by no virtue of their own been vouchsafed their gorgeous genetics; they take almost anything they want from others with little difficulty. Why is it so?

I have since the age of 15 been subject to steady, progressive, inexorable hair loss. It is genetic and perhaps partly due to stress. Yes, there was that year or two of beauty, falling between the arrival of the hair on the front of my head and the retreat of every other. But this occurred before I could enjoy or even recognize my own beauty. I was a partly closeted gay, a white lower-middle class male fighting for an identity in one of the most conservative (Dutch Reformed) communities in the United States. Now, at the age of 24, I look to be well over 30. It influences friends, jobs, and roles in musical theatre – and my sense of self-worth.

Solutions such as Rogaine and Propecia have never helped to reverse my hair loss. So this May, encouraged by a friend, I became a client of Hair Club. This strategy amounts to shaving one’s head and semi-permanently attaching a synthetic, breathable skin that is replete with real human hairs which match the color of one’s own. The solution is expensive and must be “serviced” every 1-2 months. I felt vain at the prospect, but my excitement won, and friends reminded that that people do, after all, get haircuts and buy fashionable clothing.

Now imagine how I feel, stepping into Panera Bread a new man, drawing the eyes of so many new people – younger people – and the respect of the others. I suddenly belong with my fellow 20-somethings. I suddenly pass for those theatre roles I once surpassed in age. I can wear shirts without collars again. I don’t feel the need to sit always facing the entrance, always back against the wall, always craning my neck so as not to reveal the false decay that has left its trace on the crown of my skull. I don’t have to fight for my youth with volume and spirit and energy; I look how I feel. How we all feel.

Now imagine how I feel, stepping into the city an old man – a bald one, having thrown up the sponge on my hair in a hot and humid country, voluntarily detaching the new and shaving the rest. I have at once gained 20 years and lost the short-lived friendliness and respect of those around me. I am dejected; I must fight for my youth. I am exhausted, and I feel how I look. How we all feel.

The really staggering thing is that we are all concurrently victims and perpetuators of this. We simply do notice beautiful people and don’t notice others. The beautiful ones get our attention and positive regard and touch. It is not even that we are mean to those who lack the idolized look – the evil is in the neglect. The failing to notice. It is the Phantom of the Opera. After seeing it with my dear friend Gerald, I can think only of this poor man, rejected as a child by his mother, and made evil by his wound. I mask the top of my head. His mask is worn on a more tragic front, and his rejection runs deeper, but the anguish is the same and is shared by all humanity: someone desire me and fight for me and love me in return.

Surrounded by some of the most beautiful and young-looking men in the world, I anticipate my new hair with great alacrity. But I am humbled, too, and reminded how superficial hair is, I am, and we all can be. No physical beauty will remain. How, then, can I learn to see and love the other beauty more, and acknowledge with 1 Peter:

All flesh is like the grass –
the grass withers and fades away –
but the Word of the Lord endures forever.