My posts about my beardette drew more comments than i expected. The below is a reprint of a Lebanon Democrat “Notes from the Southwest Corner” from about ten years ago. i posted the first column i wrote about hair here last January. i have had a long association with the lack of importance of hair, poking fun at our concern about hair for as long as i can remember. This one is a look at the military’s preoccupation with hair length:

SAN DIEGO – If you look at my photo accompanying this column, you can tell I am hair-follicle challenged. This could be the reason for my fascination with barber shops.

To be honest, it does not seem fair. My father, at 93, still has an almost full head of hair. My brother’s hair, at 57, is starting to thin. I figure he will catch up to me in about 2040. Even my old buddies, Henry Harding and Mike Dixon, have full locks (although the color has changed). Every one has their burdens to bear, and this is one of mine.

Yet after a few forays in hair restoration treatments as my hair got serious about leaving in my mid-30’s, I decided fighting the futile fight would only make me look like not me. Observing those who had tried different solutions, they don’t appear natural, normal. I realized I had a more serious challenge of keeping the real me in somewhat reasonable condition. If you have seen me lately, you know I have not fared too well in that arena either.

But I am happy and I loved barbershops. Another reason just might well be my spending some 14 to 15 years on Navy ships.

In case you don’t know, Navy ships had barbershops when I went to sea. Some guys with the “storekeeper” (SK) rating manned the barber chairs with not much barber training and guidelines to make the haircut conform to regulations, regardless of the desire of the barberee.

Officers on ships could get appointments. The enlisted waited in line. The haircut normally took about five minutes. In no way did the one-chair barbershops, except for the chair, resemble Pop’s, Mr. Eddins’, or Alberto’s barbershops, of which I previously have mentioned fondly.

When I completed “destroyer school” (what a lovely name), I reported to the USS Hollister (DD788) and became the Chief Engineer. The Hollister was a reserve ship out of Long Beach. It was in the early 70’s and the men’s style of the day definitely did not include Navy regulation haircuts. Length was glory, apparently. The reserve units of the day were very relaxed in enforcing haircut regulations, because hair was so important to the younger set, it was assumed many reservists would simply quit rather than whack their hair.

It was also a common practice for the wardroom officers to leave early Saturday afternoon on the reserve weekend to frequent the officer club on base. This occurred one spring Saturday when I had the duty as command duty officer (CDO, the senior officer in charge while the captain and executive officer were ashore).

One of our regular officers was a brand new Naval Academy graduate. After the officers left for the club, I changed the watch bill and put the new ensign on the quarterdeck (the only egress and ingress for the ship), and directed him to make sure no one went ashore without a regulation haircut.

Around 1400 (2:00 p.m.) after the ensign relieved the officer of the deck (OOD), at noon, I walked out to see how it was going. About 80 reservists were in the barbershop line, spilling out of the superstructure just forward of the after gun mount and around the fantail.

A few minutes later, the ensign called me in the wardroom. One hirsute second-class petty officer had requested to speak to the command duty officer. I agreed.

The young man was enraged. “I have an appointment with my hairstylist at 1600. If you let me go ashore, I will get a haircut.”

“Sure you can go see your hairstylist at 1600,” I said sympathetically, adding, “Right after, you get a regulation haircut.”

It took almost four hours and a tired barber, but they all finally went on liberty.

Nearly all of the officers who had gone to the club did not return for the evening. Next morning, quarters exhibited probably the most regulation haircuts seen in the reserve units of the period. It also produced more screaming and yelling than one would expect. The reserve officers were enraged we required their troops to get haircuts. Fortunately, my captain thought it was as funny as I did.

Oh yes, all who had suffered the barber’s shears that weekend remained in the reserves. Reserve pay was a good augmentation to one’s income, which suggests, hair isn’t quite as important as we often think it is.

Of course, I don’t have to worry about that. Look at my photo again.

A number of folks have already responded to my post about my beardette. Some favoring the look, some not.

i did not mention in the original post, two of my motivators for trying it was 1) i am at the age where doesn’t matter what i do, i’m not going to get any prettier and i started off by not being pretty, and 2) i am too old to worry about being attractive to women even if i could magically attract them.

i just flat forgot Lebanon, Tennessee is quite a bit different from the Southwest corner.

You see, i was trying this thing out. It had not been successful before, but i thought might pull it off until i hit my hometown Tuesday.

In 1979, Amphibious Squadron Five was going to be at sea for three weeks before hitting its liberty port of Hong Kong. i decided to attempt to grow a mustache and a beard. i would look in my mirror above the sink in my stateroom two, three, or four times a day rubbing what you could call stubble or fuzz to see if it was growing. The night before we entered the harbor and moored, i looked one last time. i asked myself would i let myself go on liberty with a growth like that on my face and admitted i would not.

i shaved the feeble attempt at a beard that night. i kept the poor excuse for a mustache. The later eventually became marginally acceptable.

i should have known. i got my head hair from the maternal side. It’s gone now, like theirs. It was going then, but i was too stubborn to admit it. For some reason i cannot fathom, i got my facial hair from the paternal side. My father could not shave for a week and no one would know. Of course, he shaved every day. In Lebanon, Tennessee from oh, the 1920’s  until i left in 1967, facial hair, even a mustache was considered a capital crime — i was always wondering how Col. Brown, my calculus professor, and Col. Ingram, the commandant at Castle Heights could get away with mustaches. i think it was because Col. Brown actually had been an army colonel, and Col. Ingram was from Virginia, and folks in Lebanon probably considered him a foreigner.

My brother grew a beard once. i thought it was sophisticated looking. For another inexplicable reason, he got more lasting hair on his head and more than fuzz on his face. He looked cool. Our father thought it looked shaggy.

My son-in-law, Jason Gander has magnificent facial hair. His beards are of mountain man stature. i think that is because he is from Kansas.

But me, not so much.

i tried again about ten years ago. Then, my beard was splotchy and thin, but passable i thought, until i looked sternly in the mirror and confessed i was fooling myself.

i shaved again that night.

i should note i have kept my mustache because my greatest success with women was when i had a mustache. More importantly, my wife liked it until she allowed me to shave it about two years ago. When my grandson Sam saw me shortly after i was shorn, he told me he missed my mustache. It’s back and will not go away…for my wife and my grandson.

Over the last two years, i have been too lazy for three or four days and believed my facial hair was getting better, i would not shave for another week or so and then give up.

Then sometime in late November, i forgot to shave again for several days. i decided to let it go. i told Maureen i would keep it until it was time to go to Tennessee for Christmas and then decide whether to keep it or not.

i kept it. It’s not really a beard. Too splotchy. It would work if i were around Civil War time. Some of those guys had impressive mutton chops. That’s what i would have had. The bare spots are just above my chin. There is another problem. My left side is pretty constant in thickness…er, thinness, color, i.e. white, and the bare spot has grown in or over. The right side is in a muddled state, thick and thin, and a mixture of brown and gray. It also grows out rather than down my face like the left side.

i began to like it. Folks in the Southwest corner have had different opinions about it. Some like it. Some look at it with a look of disgust. i told them it wasn’t really a beard. It was a “beardette.”  However after a dinner with friends one evening, Maureen told me i looked sophisticated, academic. That was enough to keep it, this beardette.

But then, i went to see my friend, my almost brother Henry Harding and his wife Brenda. When they saw me, i saw the look of surprised dismay on their faces. i realized Lebanon hadn’t changed that much.

In several days, i will meet my sister at her home for Christmas. i did not want her to look disgusted or possibly have a heart attack when she sees my beardette for the first time. So  i’m posting a couple of photos of me and my beardette to ease her into this.

But i think it’s going away after i get back to the Southwest corner to never return again.

Lord help us.

This began somewhere over Arizona or New Mexico.

We are headed to Nashville. It’s a three to four hour flight. There is lots of time to think.

i’ve been thinking about my recent posts concerning coming home for Christmas. i reread a couple. Good warm thoughts, you know; this Christmas cheer thing. i’m pretty good at it. There is nothing wrong with that by the way. In fact, that is the way it’s supposed to be.

The old saw about there being more suicides during the Christmas season has been debunked, but i know there is a lot of sadness around this season of Joy and Noel. i have some of it.

i haven’t had a Christmas without a tinge of sadness since 1977.  There always has been someone missing or something just a wee bit out of kilter ever since then. i won’t go into why. There are quite a few events that have placed that tinge in my heart during these  forty otherwise glorious Christmases between now and then. There is no need to beat dead horses (oh, the politically correct will have a field day with that phrase).

Four of those Christmases in the past forty years were alone, or alone as someone can be surrounded by shipmates somewhere far away. Not too much to regret about that. i signed up for it…well, not exactly to be away from home on holidays, but i knew that was part and parcel of my deal. Can’t complain.

A Christmas i’ll always remember: Maureen’s and my second, 1984. Just the two of us and two dear friends to whom we are still close. Jacksonville. Maureen and i had missed our first Christmas together. i was in the Indian Ocean. But we made up for it in ’84. i remember the antics of Doc Kerrigan and i on Christmas Eve, which i shall not go into here, maybe later. Later that evening, Maureen and i attended the service at the nearby Episcopal Church. The 11:00 p.m. service. It was small, quaint, beautiful, and wonderfully decorated, tastefully. i felt like i was in a Currier and Ives Christmas scene (without the snow). We sat in the small balcony. The music captured us, took us to a land of peace, just the two of us together with hymns on our first Christmas. Christmas Day was spent with our new friends. Laughter, fun, joking around. Couldn’t have been much better. But somewhere in all of that, in fact several times, the tinge smacked me on the back of my head.

Just to be clear that tinge of sadness will creep in this year again. i am into a day on the ground in Nashville and my hometown and the tinge already has whispered to me. That could be nostalgia. We are staying in a motel. In my hometown. We always stayed with my parents, not hotels or friends before. We thought of staying with my friends again, but i didn’t want to infringe on their Christmas plans with family. It seems strange. We went to the cemeteries this morning to say our good wishes to those who won’t be with us this Christmas. Graveside is a lovely place to reflect on wonderful times past, of course with a tinge of sadness.

We drove around town. i was glad to see the square moving back into a neat place to be with boutique shops, the antique stores seeming to be more quaint than shabby. There is even a restaurant or two. Reminded me of old Lebanon except for that ugly Burger King franchise on the northwest corner of North Cumberland. That burger store and other replacements of places in my past made me realize Lebanon isn’t exactly my hometown anymore. That’s okay. Things change. i just had to deal with another tinge of sadness.

But i’m okay, by the way. As with all things in life, tinges of sadness at Christmas time are part of it. i go back to my mantra developed out of the blue when i was handling the arrangements for my father-in-law’s final round of golf (we spread his ashes on the hole where he made his first hole in one). Ray Boggs was more than the father of my wife, he was one of my closest friends. The impact finally hit me hard. i almost lost it. Then, it came to me i should behave and deal with it the way he would want me to deal with it. And he would want me to celebrate, have a good time, remember the good times, certainly not be sad, and certainly not lose it. i didn’t. That is my guideline for getting past losing it, getting past tinges of sadness.

i got through my nostalgia tinges today, and i will get through them for the rest of this season. But they will be there.

And i will have a “merry” Christmas. In fact, it will be glorious. It’s about the birth of that guy that brought a promise that still hangs in the air. A new beginning. New hope.

Joy to the World.

We saddle up the big horse in the sky tomorrow headed east.

Home.

Too long away. Always is too long.

Too short of a stay. Always is.

i miss home.

But the stay is also too long.

Sometimes i wonder why we go.

After all, i went Christmas shopping last Thursday and just happened to wander into Balboa Park. It was seventy-two, no wind. i parked by the carousel, wound my way past the Casa del Prado Theater and the Natural History Museum to look out on the fountain. The Timken Museum is on the left, the Botanical Building on the left, and the lily pond just past the Timken make it a peaceful vista.

i look back at the covered walkway of  the Casa del Prado. i would like to just sit and contemplate, maybe bring a note pad and write a few words. History seems to lie here. Very few just sit and contemplate: too many things to see and experience. It is a big, lovely place in the middle of the now big city, an escape in the midst of madness.

i pass the Botanical Building, home of about a gazillion ferns and plants of all kinds of variations. It is cool inside, even in the Santa Ana’s. Someday, i plan to actually stay for a while when i go inside, study the plants, learn a little biology. It would be good to get smart about plants and those strange ferns. But i have other things to pursue.

i walk past the Timken and look out at the plaza, a place to mingle. It is a comfortable place with nice dining on the edges, much better since they closed off the plaza to traffic. i try to imagine 1915 and the California Pacific International Exposition, which created these buildings, this atmosphere. It is not hard to imagine.

i look at the California Tower and the Old Globe beneath it. Magnificent structures and the Old Globe, close to an exact replica of the original with many plays, especially those of Shakespeare, and i think i just don’t go to enough of them. i have enjoyed every one i’ve seen in that place, yet i always seem to find reasons to not go. Crazy.

i must go. It’s only been less than an hour, too short a time, always too short, too many things to get done. on my walk back to the car, i pass the Morton Bay Fig tree, enormous now, planted as a small sapling at the exposition in 1915.  It is about eighty feet high and close to 150 feet wide, one of nature’s ways to make us feel small with her majesty.

But i will not tarry here this season. It’s time go home and see friends and family. Again, i ask myself why. i have friends here:

Jim and Sharon Hileman and Pete Toennies with his Christmas lights sweater, fortunately turned off for this photo. Sharon went to high school with Maureen; life-long friends. Jimbo was my second golfing buddy in San Diego. The first, our best man, the helo pilot Dave O’Neill, is somewhere in South Dakota dove hunting…and Pete, well, i think i’ve said enough about him.

Then there is the “Grand Whiner” of the Friday Morning Golf Curmudgeons with a fez  we gave him to prove it, and a hero few know about, Marty Linville with his wife Linda, a Chiefs fan through and through. Next to them is Joanne Stark, Irish through and through who loves French and is from Boston. the profile on the edge is the goofy guy.

Rod Stark with Joanne and the goofy guy. Rod is a great golfer, a former club pro and the guy who almost read my retirement speech while i was with my wife in labor…but i made it. He’s one of the nicest guys around. There will be more about the goofy guy in a later post.

It’s not a great photo of Nancy, but she is one beautiful lady, like six feet tall and can turn heads when she goes to brunch at the Hotel del Coronado’s Crown Rook with a five-six goofy guy. She is also caring beyond belief. She has been tending to one or both of her parents for twenty years. Pete helps, and they both have included us as family on many outings.

And of course, there is this native San Diegan who just happens to be my wife. This is her home yet she follows me…no she doesn’t follow we go side by side anywhere together. Have been doing that for a long time. She fits in with every family and friend i have, perhaps even better than me. She is sophisticated and sometimes unabashedly a little crude. She loves jokes; she laughs and the whole world laughs with her. And San Diego is her place. So i wonder why are we going to travel across the country where i won’t play golf, where i won’t go to Balboa Park on a perfect day in December.

After all, we have a tree, a beautiful one at that thanks to Maureen and Sarah, and, i mean we haven’t had but two Christmases here since we moved in 1989. We had Christmas at Maureen’s dad’s house from our third year together — the first i was in the Indian Ocean, and the second (another sea story) we spent with Frank and Jan Kerrigan in Jacksonville. That was a long time ago and i think it would be lovely to have Christmas here, and i could play golf the next day, and we could go to Balboa Park the next, and the zoo the next, and dine at our favorite places, and take a walk along the ocean, and we wouldn’t have the stress of Christmas travel, or the pain of packing and unpacking and packing and unpacking, and getting home and sorting through the mail, and spending time with the neighbors and…

But you know what? We’ve been coming to Lebanon and Chattanooga, or rather Signal Mountain since 1992 and it’s Christmas, our Christmas, and my sister plays the bells in the Christmas Eve and home. Well, home is home and will always be home.

i’m glad i’m headed east for Christmas.