The Hapless Bachelor's Hairy Revelation

By Kevin Gibson
April 20, 2009

I really enjoy living the single life – you answer only to yourself, you do what you want when you want, and you can walk around the house in your underwear without anyone going, “Dude, gross!”

It’s really quite nice.

It’s also a brilliant feeling, when someone asks what I’m doing tomorrow, to be able to say, “Any damn thing I want!” But you already knew that.

At the same time, there’s something to be said for having another person around to help you out when you run across problems you aren’t quite sure how to conquer on your own. For example, when I ask my dog if my shirt matches my pants, he typically just cocks his head slightly to the right and then begins to sniff himself in places I’d prefer he kept his face away from. That’s no help at all.

And just the other day, I realized that the hair jungle on the back of my neck was getting quite out of control. When you have a girlfriend, you can always implore her to mow that mess with some clippers, or shave it off completely, but what is a bachelor supposed to do? Call a neighbor? Look on Craigslist for a neck groomer? Um, no.

Enter the two-mirrors episode.

Finally frustrated with the ever-thickening hair safari on my neck, I got out the clippers one morning before stepping into the shower and positioned myself with a full-length wall mirror in front of me and the bathroom vanity mirror behind me. Fearful I would accidentally cut off hair I didn’t want to lose, I figured out where to guide the clippers, then held the hair at the base of my neck up out of the way, just to be safe.

When I finished, I looked to see how well I had done … and for about a second and a half, I fully believed I had cut a swath up the back of my head that would absolutely have necessitated me shaving my head. I was due at work in about 40 minutes at this point, and the feeling of panic and dread that permeated me was quite possibly sufficient to bring about a mild stroke, had it continued unabated. 

Fortunately for me, my panic dissipated when I realized that my hair simply had stayed molded to where I had pushed up on it; the would-be bald patch was simply an illusion brought about by a case of bedhead. Disaster averted. The groan of relief I bellowed in my tiny bathroom was potentially audible to my neighbors. Hell, goat herders probably heard it in Nova Scotia.

Here’s another example: I couldn’t get my lawn mower to start last weekend, and I have no idea what to do short of either taking it to a repair shop or simply buying a new mower, both of which require me to admit I’m an idiot. I guess it could be the spark plug, and I guess I’ll buy one and try it out before I do anything rash. But in the meantime I just had to pay some to mow my lawn for me. Paying another man to mow your lawn is just not right -- I have shamed my species. Maybe I’ll buy some goats. Or would that only shame me more?

In spite of these indignities, however, life is good. I went to Chicago with friends this past weekend to see a concert, and we ended up having a great time, drinking a few beers afterward, then driving back (my friend Gina acted as designated driver), finally arriving home shortly after dawn. It was like being a teen-ager again, and the experience reminded me how great it is to be single and carefree.

But it was also at the aforementioned show that I remembered why we get into these silly things called “relationships” in the first place. I’ll be the first to admit that I can be cynical and negative about the whole dating thing – getting your heart stomped can do that to a person, and I’m good at picking exactly the wrong person for me, thus repeating these stompings. Hey, I’m an OK writer and a terrible musician, so at least I have something I can say I’m really good at. For me, it just happens to be a talent for finding the wrong people to give my heart to. Maybe I’ll launch my own variety show.

Anyway, at some point during the concert, the lead singer of the band Travis, Fran Healy, announced that something “special” was about to occur. I can’t recall all of the details, but in a nutshell, a fan of the band had inquired via MySpace about proposing to his girlfriend on stage during the show. He and his girlfriend are both big fans of Travis, and it isn’t often the group is in the U.S. (since they hail from Scotland), so clearly this was a pretty big deal for this young couple.

To make the occasion even more juicy, the guy had told his girlfriend he couldn’t make it to the show – so she was clearly quite surprised when he walked out onto the stage. She was in the first row, so they pulled her up on stage, he gave his speech, took a knee and proposed. The band then let the happy couple sit on the drum riser while performing “Humpty Dumpty Love Song” in the couple's honor.

Of course, it won over the crowd, and as I listened to the song (which actually is kind of cynical, like most of Travis’s tunes) I felt a bit like the Grinch. You see, having been kicked pretty hard in the balls (figuratively speaking) by two of the last three people I’ve dated, I have been pretty bitter and closed off recently. It’s difficult to trust when you’re constantly setting yourself up for disappointment. But standing there watching the scene unfold, tears began to run from my eyes, and heavy emotions washed over me. As I listened to the song, I turned into a quivering douchebag and realized – in fact, mostly embraced -- that I am indeed still a romantic at heart.

Like the Grinch’s, I think my heart grew a couple of sizes that day. It was like standing on the mountain listening to the Whos down in Whoville sing their Christmas carols with no gifts, no tree, no roast beast to look forward to. They were just happy, and for whatever reason, this guy’s proposal at a rock concert in a small venue in Chicago helped me, like the Whos with the Grinch, to once again embrace my inner, sometimes deeply buried, faith in humanity and love.

So I made a promise to myself that I would not let my past experiences dictate my attitude. Will I get my nads rearranged again? Yeah, probably. I’m a psycho magnet, after all. But the truth is that one day I want to again feel the way that guy in Chicago feels about his new fiancée. I want to again feel the ability to open up and love someone without reservation. I know it’s probably an exercise in futility, but life is short. I love my single lifestyle and I’m generally a happy guy, but I also know how great it can be to share that happiness with someone else – hopefully it can be someone who is willing and who is honest about who they are and how they feel.

So, many thanks to Travis and to whomever that guy was who put himself out there like that to show such strong love for another human being. I salute him for having the gonads to do it, and I hope his situation turns out better than a couple of mine have. I certainly hope I’ll get another chance to have a more positive experience at some point.

In the meantime, though, if anyone reading this Brain Fart would like to mow my lawn, I’d be much obliged. There’s 20 bucks in it for you. And if you find a few clumps of neck hair on the sidewalk, I apologize.

E-mail me. And yeah, I admit it, I was probably just feeling the beer. Sue me.