CONFIDENTIAL FILE

Way Out Back, a Head of Hair

See that picture down the column a few lines?

The one of the smiling, bushy-haired boy?

That’s me.

I’ll
concede that it wasn’t taken yesterday. But if you want to get
technical, I wasn’t born yesterday either. Which doesn’t make sense.
However, I warned you not to get technical.

Columnists have
certain inalienable liberties. One of which is the right to decorate
their columns with vintage photographs of themselves.

At most, it’s petty deceit. And I certainly don’t stand alone in my guilt.

Take Westbrook Pegler. (If they haven’t taken him already.) Judging from his column photograph, he’s been 39 years old for the last 40 years.

It’s also my private belief that The Mirror News uses a woodcut of Bob Ruark
which was made before Matthew Brady stood in the muck and mire outside
of Atlanta and caught a candid shot of William Tecumseh Sherman as he
was angrily admonishing the press: "I never said, ‘War is Hell.’ Don’t
you boys go putting words in my mouth."

Furthermore, as I glance around the office, that Sid Ziff is no spring chicken, either.

But let’s get back to my personal situation. Slowly, inevitably, my boyhood is slipping away.

I don’t deny it. And honestly, I don’t mind talking about it.

That’s why I took no offense when a stranger by the name of Fred Fredericks telephoned me the other day.

"I’m
head of the hair department at Max Factor," he introduced himself. He
was calling, he said, because of my recent written account about an
ex-boxer named Tiger Small, whose hobby is swiping toupees.

"That’s a very funny line," I said.

"What’s a funny line, sir?" he asked.

"Head of the hair department," I explained.

"Thank you," Mr. Fredericks replied. "Would you object to a personal question?"

Before I could tell him I most certainly would, he went on: "Well you, yourself, have a nice full head of hair-"

"You’re a prince to say that, Mr. Fredericks."

"-in
the back," he continued. "But don’t misunderstand me. I’m not
suggesting that you need a whole hair piece. A little piece in front,
about the size of Hitler’s moustache, should do nicely.

"Please
don’t think," he went on hurriedly, "I am soliciting. I am doing it
because I think you need it. We’ve got all the business we can handle
anyway. Now, on your particular head–"

"On my particular head," I informed him coldly, "I have no intention of wearing Hitler’s mustache."

Hairline Decisions, No Doubt

Mr. Fredericks cleared his throat. "I have a lot of satisfied clients who used to be just as vain as you are. They couldn’t face up to it."

"To what?" I demanded.

"The
first signs, of course, are in the comb. The next signs, in the mirror.
If you weren’t in the limelight, I’d say you shouldn’t worry."

"Mr. Fredericks," I shouted into the mouthpiece, "I’m not worried. But get to the point. Are you trying to intimate that I’m going bald?"

There was, as I recall, a lengthy silence.

"Tell me the truth," I cried. "Am I going completely bald?"

"Pull
yourself together," he said. "If you aren’t bald now, you won’t ever
be. At your age you haven’t got enough time left to get completely
bald."

For a bad moment, Mr. Fredericks’ remark filled me with
a sense of inescapable doom. But I feel better about it now that I
think it over. Because, as they say on the billboards, at least, "it’s
a comfort to know."