Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The SHHNing
It was really a short walk - just three blocks; and by the time I was heading home, most folk had already cleared out. It’s not really an “after hours” part of town where I work. But even in that short distance, amidst that diffuse enpeoplement, I got the shavehead headnod a fulsome thrice.
So, you ask fragmentally: shavehead headnod? And I, shinywise, smile and nod my shaven head - but not with the SHHN. It’s just a regular nod for you fuzzpates.
Permit me to expound:
First of all, a shaved head is a bald head, but not necessarily vice versa. Some guys go bald, but don’t shave. Then again, some guys shave full heads of hair. It’s a choice, shaveheadedness is, that seems to be influenced by (but not dependent on) alopecia. It’s not the right choice for everybody, regardless of hair-growing capacities, but for the last few years it’s been the right choice for me.
Lately, now, my choice has gotten a lot more popular. At times I find myself at a bar or street corner (okay, drinking under a streetlight, you caught me and I hope you’re proud of yourself) and there’s two or three or four other shaveheads coincidentally right there with me. Sort of makes it seem pedestrian, in the pejorative sense. Yet I and my gleaming clerestory persevere.
It’s also worth mentioning that shaveheadedness is distinct from skinheadedness. The latter is a polticial statement, a sneering slap at an overcoiffed world. But shaveheadedness is content-neutral; it argues no brief and stakes no claim. It’s an aesthetic, nothing more. It can be hard to discern the difference at a distance, but after a few minutes in close proximity, it becomes much more obvious. Shaveheads may sometimes scowl, but they don’t sneer.
So: I’m walking to the bus stop in my suit and my casually untucked stripy shirt. I’ve got my messenger saq over one shoulder and my naked head over both shoulders. I’ve had a long day. I’m not out to connect with my fellow man - I just want to get the hell home.
The “drummer’s choice” iPod mix is pounding my tympani and I walk with loping strides, jaw set and spine erect. I am watching the sidewalk for people I need to avoid or evade, and that’s when I see him: my height, solid build, suede blazer and expensively frayed pants. His complexion is coffee and his features are set in a scowl with which personal experience has made me familiar. Also, his head is shaved. He, too, walks tall and strides wide. His eyes, too, are on the oncoming world.
As we pass each other our eyes briefly - very briefly - lock, and we both clamp our jaws just a little more tightly and dip our brows two degrees down. It’s a tiny gesture, which we make simultaneously. It’s something I very much doubt anyone else even saw, much less noticed. It was the SHHN. Our fraternal handshake. We briefly presented our frontal lobes to each other in a display of mutual recognition and non-involvement. “Yo, shavehead.” That’s all it was. We were both too tightly wound and slickscalped to bother with more. We moved smoothly in our mutual opposite directions. The moment was destined to fade rapidly in my selectively porous memory.
But one block further along, it happens again. This dude had chocolate skin-tone, a nice suit and shirt (all tucked in with a dimpled necktie), and an attache’ case. He’s a little softer in the gut but his jaw is properly locked down and his eyes are properly wary. As we pass, we drop a mutual nod. Just a little one. That’s all it takes. That makes two, and it gets me thinking.
One more block and I’m at the bus stop, which occupies a small island in the middle of traffic in the middle of the street at a busy intersection at the feet of a fistful of tall buildings. A bay wind pushes the cars and trucks along and I stand with my fellow commuters waiting for our common ride. Jaywalkers occasionally stride through our patient assembly as we wait. One, I sense as soon as he steps off the curb behind me: Tall and burly in a tough overshirt, brown denim pants and heavy, pristine workboots. His pale jaw is stubbly with scruff and a Carhartt’s cap rides low on his brow. I can tell instantly that his hat covers an otherwise naked scalp.
He’s just passing through, our concrete island a mere way-station for him on his trip from the east sidewalk to the west. He doesn’t slow down as he cruises through. But he does take a brief moment, without breaking stride, to glance my way, clamp his molars, and give me the nod. The SHHN. Per regulation, it’s a quickie. That’s how we smoothies prefer it.
