Rental

like the rings of a tree

Why would I decide to grow a full beard in the middle of summer, with the apex of heat and humidity barreling toward me? How could someone consciously put the equivalent of a wool mask on in July in the south? What goes through a person’s head as they let thick coarse hair take over their face with a heat index in the 90’s blazing outside?

I’m not entirely sure.

As a means of defense I’ve been calling it my “spontaneous beard.” Laughing while I outwardly question this decision to friends, family, and the public at large. In all honesty, though, it wasn’t a terribly conscious decision. After a few days of growth, which is my usual modus operandi anyway, I got an audition for a Dad role.* I thought a beard would be an appropriate choice since dads have beards. So I trimmed that 7 o’clock shadow into something resembling “on purpose.” A cleaned-up-dad decision.

From there I continued to trim that shadow until it became a dark alley (I think I’m losing this metaphor). As the weeks went by, that “spontaneous beard” became just a beard. In July. In the south. With all the global warming closing in on my face.

And here we are.

I don’t think of myself as a shape shifter but when I look at my history there’s a pattern of making bold statements with my appearance. It all started when I was 12 and dyed my hair blonde in my best friend’s bathroom. We laughed and screamed as we toweled off a mop of bright orange hair. Think Beaker.

“Are you sure this is okay with Monica?” Her mom asked as she stumbled upon our shenanigans, the bathroom flooring soaking wet. I wasn’t yet good at lying so I’m sure I spouted some suspicious bullshit which prompted a call to my mom. Yet again I was foiled by mom code.

The reality was that it was not okay with Monica or Jeffrey. My parents had, in no uncertain terms, told me no. Perhaps I had hinted around wanting to dye my hair or blatantly asked if I could do it. They said I couldn’t. It wasn’t-something-boys-did was likely the justification at the time. To break gender norms was/is one of gravest offenses in our society, as my little queer heart would learn over and over again.

I was incensed and incredulous. Both my sisters had all manner of ear piercings. In fact, if my timeline of events is correct, my sister Shannon had a double lobe piercing when I dyed my hair! They were allowed to use Sun In (which also provided users’ hair with a light orange, occasionally green, hue). They seemed to be allowed bodily expression in a way that I wasn’t. Perhaps this speaks more to women’s bodies being viewed as decoration…but that’s for another PDW.

Knowing that a punishment lay on the other side of this bright orange mane, I marched down the street back home with my head held high but my heart racing. My parents’ disappointment and annoyance was palpable as they took in my ridiculous appearance. I was too old for spankings so they deliberated on an appropriate penance for my crime. To my sisters’ utter delight, I was sentenced to a month of doing the dishes.

It’s gone down in family lore: the orange hair, Alicia calling mom, the month of dishes. Everyone has a good hearty laugh at middle-school me awkwardly finding his way. For the last twenty years though, I suppose I’ve been trying to have the last laugh.

College saw me getting my first tattoos. Then came ear piercings. In my 20s I dyed my hair blonde for real. A reclamation of the past. It required 3 boxes of drugstore dye to even be considered blonde. Beaker evolved into Guy Fieri like a damn Pokémon. I would go on to grow every style of facial hair: beard, goatee, mustache. I continued getting tattoos. One time I shaved my head. This journey reached a fever pitch this week when I finally got a long-pined-after nose ring.

It’s too simple to chalk all this body modification up to a single parent-child disagreement. I was in middle school so if it hadn’t been dying my hair, it would have been something else. In fact there were plenty of something elses after that.

I think instead I’m continuing to find my way. In the way that we all are. Each tattoo, each facial hair change, each piercing is a marker, both literally and figuratively. I mark my body in a way that says I’m here, right now, at this moment. It’s a playful recording of the person I’ve been along the way. When I survey my body I have physical evidence of the past. Like the rings of a tree trunk, my body tells a story.

Whether it’s dying my hair accidental orange or growing a thick beard in the dead of summer, it’s all fodder for this ridiculous journey we’re on. And when I leave my body behind, it won’t really matter. At least, this was the argument I presented at age 12. I still stand by it though. No one gets to take their body with them when they go. It’s a rental. So why not paint the cabinets and change out the hardware? It’s one of the few ways we can make this temporary house feel like home and mark the stages of the lives that were lived in them.

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*I’ve now entered the ‘Dad’ phase of my career. I appear to be capable of not only procreating but of raising the offspring. At least to casting directors. My mind still operates like a 14-year-old so I can’t quite fathom this. Such is life.