Decades later, I still haven’t gotten used to it that The Baby, aka, my sibling-like substance Hondo Boston, is driving. That’s him in the photo above. Adding insult to injury, “Hondo,” is the choreographer for the Rams’ cheerleaders. Spit on him. Not only that, he’s 50-something. Birthdays like that are forgivable, even though it encourages people to ciphering.

“Well. If Hondo’s 53. And he’s (your hand darts out to cover their mouth in case someone’s eavesdropping) years younger than you — why — that makes you (your hand darts out to cover their mouth in case someone’s eavesdropping) years old! Ahahahaha ha-ha!”

Darn guy. 53. You know the worst part? To quote Warren Zevon, in “Werewolves of London,” “…and his hair was just — PERFECT.”

My hair? It’s not so perfect. I know. I’m to blame. I honor the Japanese side of the Boston family by wearing it samurai style.

Cropped very, very, very tightly on the top with nicely trimmed side panels. It takes more daily work, in a zen sort of way, plus, I guess you can just call me a sentimental fool when it comes to my ancient warrior traditions.

“I’m not bald. I just cut it this way,” I tell people.

I’m not sure anyone believes me.

Looking back, it seems like the gods set into motion some grand, cosmic conspiracy against me. I came into this world bald as a cue ball. Through childhood, my father, Walt, had a penchant for doling out comic haircuts. I either had rock-a-billy hoodlum jellyrolls as a child or a Charles Manson/mad 12th-century monk butch. When I became old enough to declare my follicle independence, my father turned his minimalist artistic impressions on my dog.

During my adult years, I had this great little companion. Joyful. Affable. Affectionate. A great listener. Loyal. Supportive. Grateful to know me. No. It wasn’t an ex-wife. It was this little happy-go-lucky soul, a Bichon frise named Nicky.

They don’t teach this in school. It’s nowhere in the Bible. As for the Koran or teachings of Confucius, I cannot say. But, unless it’s a Code Red Emergency or someone’s about to die, you should never shave a dog’s head.

It’s wrong.

You should never shave a dog’s head especially when he’s got a thick Brady Bunch curly white Afro.

I had to spend the day in L.A. once and left Nicky in the care of my father. When I jogged into the perverse performance art/bedlam wing that was my childhood home, there to greet me were my father and my dog. My dog was shivering like a whore at 10 o’clock Easter Sunday High Mass.

Nicky still had that patented little ball of fluffy white fur body. But Dad had taken the clippers, or, perhaps, hedge clippers or a chain saw, clicked the offending machinery into Planet Destroyer Level 12 and scalped him like Dad was Chief Crazy Horse and Nicky was Nameless Unfortunate 7th Cavalry Officer No. 4 in the 1941 Errol Flynn/Custer’s Last Stand flick, They Died With Their Boots On.

Dumbfounded, I looked at Dad.

Dad shrugged.

“He looked hot,” Walt said.

“If he looked cold, would you have glued some road kill to him?” I asked.

For a while, my Caribbean water terrier looked like Pet Of The Village Idiot. His hair eventually grow back and after a while, he could actually go outside during daylight without wearing those obvious cancer patient wigs or Barbra Streisand wharf worker caps.

I attended high school at the beginning of The Sexual Revolution. Or so I was informed many years later by Wikipedia. You know what the Number One Requirement for participating in sports at Hart High back then? Speed? Hustle? Agility? Coordination? Being a team player? No.

The most important thing in being a Mighty Indian warrior back then was to have your head shaved. It was a requirement by all those coaches, who pointed out that it made you look like a real man.

a real man in a straitjacket with a zippered lobotomy scar. Or Uncle Fester from The Addams Family. Or, simply, inbred and from Nebraska (below).

Which may be redundant.

Instead of having shoulder-length curls draping over my shoulders like I was president of the San Bernardino Hells Angels, I was 17 and had a butch. I had great hair. Could I show it off my senior year? No. I had to gallop around town on all threes, manually sticking my tongue back in my mouth to match my shaved noggin.

But life is stitched together with aggravatingly short threads. I had use of my fetching, run your fingers through my curly locks for such a short period of time. Looking back, it was about 20 minutes.

And now, I ask: “Where did my hair go?”

The easy answer?


In carpets. Sinks. Blown away after years of riding a motorcycle. Perhaps wig-making gremlins visited me while I slept.

This being counterculture times, let the record be clear: “Fetching, full-sized, beautiful, FEMALE wig-making gremlins.”

I can’t really grow a beard or giant sideburns. At my current weight of 185-pounds — ahem, plus or minus — it would just make me look like a daft pro wrestling villain.

And Hondo, damn him, making some unholy deal with Satan, selling his soul for a few extra years of great hair.

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t right.


(SCV author John Boston also writes The Time Ranger & SCV History for your SCV Beacon. He’s has earned more than 100 major awards for writing, including being named, several times, America’s best humor, and, best serious columnist. Don’t forget to check out his national humor, entertainment & swashbuckling commentary website, America’s Humorist — http://www.johnbostonchronicles.com/) — © 2017 by John Boston. All rights reserved.


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