A clean white button-down, a stiff collar and some nice close pattern; floral, paisley, geometric but nothing zig-zaggy – and always with an earth-tone, something to meander around in, a breeze, maybe a shadow of a breeze – and a sharp crease in a long leg. Those things and a pair of shoes with a nice line, a good finish and a balanced seam. That’ll do. That’s enough. For me, nothing fancy. I’m not fancy, I’m barely there, barely, but neatly; existant.
Him, he’s slinky, slinky into the office, slinky around the meetings – we work well together, set each other off, do daring things with ideas, plans, spreadsheets – the differences are our strength; Together we have tidal waves of strength, moxie, balls. Different styles, different manners, different. It's like this:
His shoes find him on Madison Avenue. I get my kicks on Sixth, in a box in a bag. Everyone’s got their own thing.
Those suits he’s wearing – Barney’s – Boss – Fifth, yeah, yeah - Fifth Ave for them deep pocket rides; fabrics I can’t pronounce, far away places, exotic countries, weaves that dazzle, colors of the rainbow, perfect balance, daring, evident, masterful. Okay, okay. I got bin-picking elbow, who’s ashamed? You? Not me. You care? Not me. I’m comfortable. Mostly. Mostly comfortable…
Except for the hair. He’s got the hair; it’s some growing stuff, real, very alive, fast – it’s got a mind of its own - I got some, some hank of hairs; he’s got a fine wild steed’s mane, I got the hairy kneecap of an old mule topping the top of me.
The hair of his, it grows so fast he can’t keep up – he’s doing things with it daily to show who’s the boss of the stuff, He’s doing magic tricks with it – different styles, morphing moves, sudden shifts, tricks; it’s a live show, effortless - he’s past the old hat hairdos, I’ve seen those come and go, a few a day sometimes.
I recognized twenty or thirty that had names - that was the first month:
The Princeton, the Harvard jumping off a Crew, grows into a Brush Cut and slides into a Square Back – this in a matter of days!
Not a word, never a word, not about the hair. He never lets on, not even a glance upward...
This is what he'll do: He’ll run a French Crop, push it over into a Pompadour, and then bounce it back over into a Fringe – then he smiles, takes an afternoon off, and shows up again with a Crop, sneezes into a Flat-top, and laughs his way into a Caesar.
I’ve seen things on that head of his that defy the laws of physics. He’s worn a Mule with a Battlement Fringe, a Landing-pad tied back to a Weeping Widow! He’s had an Augustan flanked by Rolling Curls in the morning only to be transformed in a one-run to the toilet into a Saddle Twist humped by a Faux Mullet!
And me… I got this mange, this startled lacking, this bony bit of a mule's kneecap touching off my fine style. What can I say? There's not much to work with. You pull the knot in your tie a little tighter, that’ll put some color in your scalp. A few pushups.
It keeps me up nights, I’ll admit, a few hours, just a few – but add’em up – those hours, you got something, something tired, tired looking, hard to manage. Bitter. Maybe something bitter. I don’t know. Too damned tired. Hanks of hair.
Differences, choices, makes a good team, good team.