On a rainy afternoon, a Sean Connery film was playing on cable TV. I’m a big fan of the late Scottish actor who was the face and voice of “Bond, James Bond.”
I also liked Connery later in his career because he wasn’t afraid to toss his toupee and show the world’s sexiest man was actually bald.
My dad started losing his hair when he was in his 20’s, and he constantly agonized about his receding hairline.
Finally, he decided to order a toupee. I remember the day the hair piece arrived. My mom taped a note to the back door stating “It’s Here!” and my dad ran inside to open the box.
We weren’t sure what to think, but my dad was over the moon that he could finally cover his bald head.
Few were fooled, but wearing the “rug” made him feel good, so we went along with his attempt to cover the baldness.
Over the years, my dad put on weight. His head got a little bigger, but he was too frugal – well cheap – to buy a new toupee. He would simply tug down on the back part of it whenever a sliver of his scalp showed through.
My brother says one of the funniest things he’s ever seen was when my dad was at an amusement park. They were on a ride where the round wall spins and the floor drops out from underneath the riders. The centrifugal force keeps the riders plastered against the wall.
As the ride spun, dad’s toupee slowly floated up in the front, only staying on because Dad’s head was against the wall. My brother spent the whole ride watching my dad attempting to lift his arm up so he could clamp his hand down on the toupee to keep it from potentially flying off.
Dad eventually grew tired of how hot his head felt in the summer and he missed swimming. One day, he ditched the rug for good, claiming he had better things to do with his energy than grow hair on his head.
My brothers, sons and most of my nephews are also either bald or balding. For the most part, they’ve accepted their fate gracefully.
Our youngest brother calls himself “The Bald Avenger” on his popular website, and one of my sons thinks being bald is a good deal. He doesn’t waste time combing his hair or spend money at a barbershop.
While watching an episode of “Ted Lasso,” one of the characters bemoans the fact that he can no longer play professional football, soccer to we Americans. His girlfriend, knowing he’s upset, asks her boyfriend’s young niece to describe her uncle.
She never once mentions he’s a football player. I decided to try the experiment on my family in honor of my dad’s upcoming birthday.
I asked them to describe Pop using only three words. I gave no more direction than that, and here are the words I received in response: optimistic, direct, insightful, opinionated, entrepreneurial, goofy, spirited, magical, hopeful, spontaneous, energetic, dancer, charismatic, suave and force of nature.
Dad was all of those things and more. But there was one adjective no one mentioned.
No one said bald.
Not one person.
Something that bothered my father all of his adult life wasn’t even mentioned by those of us who knew and loved him well.
Those who love us don’t really notice the physical traits that bother us the most. They see us for who we are, both on the outside and on the inside.
They know us for our talents, whether it’s sewing, playing the guitar, dancing or drawing.
They won’t remember us as fat, skinny, tall, short, bald or hairy. They’ll remember us for giving of ourselves in times of need. They’ll remember we listened to them cry or tell us about their day.
They’ll remember our kindness when we tucked them into bed at night or listened patiently as they told us a story.
They’ll remember if we had soft skin, strong arms or a comfortable lap. They’ll remember our singing voice, our laugh and the stories we told.
They’ll remember backyard barbecues, shooting hoops and baking cookies together.
Above all, they will remember we loved them.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.