A Song of Selsun Blues

I HAD a date last Saturday night. "Who is she?" my brother asked over the din of my electric razor. "A Harvard Woman," I answered.

My brother was impressed. He went to Brown.

Anyway, I got ready for my date. I wore that new flannel shirt and fished through the drawer for the clean pair of socks I keep for just such occasions. I even did my Frank Burns imitation and checked for nose hairs in the mirror. I left nothing to chance.

And it seemed to be paying off. We were grooving--almost to the point where we would share childhood stories and discover our many Things In Common. Then it happened.

I fussed with my hair.

I guess it's a nervous gesture from the days when my mother insisted on cutting my hair herself--taking special care that it looked really, really silly (of the "are you a boy or a girl" variety). I quickly became obsessed with my hair, intentionally messing it up to send a signal to all potential tormentors: Yeah, my hair is silly. Wanna make something of it?

Lately, as I come to terms with the prospect of being bald as a cueball well before I'm old enough to drink, the hair-rub has developed an affectionate twist. Hey hair, how ya' doin'. Just checking to see if you're still there.

Anyway, there I am grooving with this babe, chewing on a tasty piece of falafel, pretending to be sweet and sensitive...

I rubbed my head.

And the flakes came sprinkling down.

I HAVE fond memories of snow. In second grade, I used to wake up several hours before the rest of the house to listen to Jim Scott's school closings on WKRC. During my first year, the first snowfall was greeted by a huge party in the Yard.

Unfortunately, my memories of dandruff aren't so great. Besides the botched effort at romance (read on, read on), I keep thinking of those damn Head & Shoulders commercials. You know the ones. "It's about your flakes," the healthy athletic dude says confidentially to his hip pal while pumping iron.

Dude A gives Dude B his shampoo. They both go on to be swarmed by beautiful women and produce many offspring. "You know, you never get a second chance to make a first impression."

Of course, I never believe television anymore. But way back when--oh, maybe two or three years ago--I was an impressionable youngster. Imagine my horror, sitting at a cozy table for two at Skewer's, trimmed nose hair and clean socks, my eyes and hers meeting for a short, beautiful moment...and an army of angry white flakes storming into my field of vision.

Let's get this straight--I tell this tale not for sympathy (I could always dwell on the hair-loss thing for that). No, my strong social conscience refuses to allow me to remain silent. I have been a victim of a vicious societal prejudice.

The folks at Pensinsula rail against the "Dominion of the politically correct." Well what about the socially correct and its estranged cousin, the socially incorrect (see dweeb, nerd, Quadling, etc.)? At least political thought is based on some semblance of reason. Who came up with the ever-powerful list of social no-no's?

I mean, what could possibly be wrong with little flecks of white scalp-skin? If Head & Shoulders implied that grey hair would ruin a first impression, the AARP would sic a team of silver topped lawyers on them in a minute.

THIS whole dandruff thing is a perfect example of a ludicrous set of priorities when it comes to personal hygiene. I imagine a group of old men locked up in a smoky room somewhere deciding what is "acceptable" and what is not. Their opinions are instilled in the national consciousness by an overzealous advertising industry itching (no pun intended) to extract a few bucks by fabricating social insecurities.

Next thing you know, they'll start in on us about dry, peeling belly buttons and earlobes: "Try `Lobes-So-Soft' for smooth, supple folds of skin."

Every time I consider rebelling against the oppression of Tegrin and Head & Shoulders, I think back to those commercials where "baseball star Jim Palmer" gets hysterical over "embarassing flakes and itching." I mean, if dandruff can knock this guy out of the running, where do I stand?

But my fury against the dandruff-shampoo conspiracy never subsides. Not only is dandruff shampoo humiliating and outrageously expensive, the stuff actually damages your hair. Modeling agencies won't even let their clients use it.

Yet the fear of the dandruff police compels me to use it. I am not alone, either. All four shampoo bottles in my shower promise "relief from itching and flaking." One roommate, whose girlfriend wouldn't dump him even if he suddenly sprouted a third nostril, still uses the stuff religiously. ("Gosh, if she notices flakes, it's all over.") My roommate Rocco, who sports a bald spot the size of Australia (thanks to my unpolished hair-cutting skills) is certain that flakes will doom his hopes at romance.

It doesn't have to be that way. We can fight back. We can boycott dandruff shampoos. We can hold candlelight vigils and demonstrations in the Yard. We can sponsor a "Dandruff Pride Day" and a "Flaky Scalp Awareness Week."

Because the fact is, it's okay to have a few flakes. To be honest, I misled you when I suggested that my date was so petty as to dump me over a few flecks of dandruff. Nothing could be further from the truth.

She just didn't like my flannel shirt.

Joshua W. Shenk '93 really does like soft, supple earlobes.