Terry Marotta:
Keeping the Focus Where it Belongs

When history swoops near, as it’s done in these last few weeks, it throws folks off.

A man in his 50s, accustomed to waking at 5:00 told me he now can’t sleep past 4:00. A boy 17 said he can’t wake up. He hits the "snooze" button every nine minutes for two hours straight without even being aware of it. Time magazine reported that a little girl renamed all her dolls George Bush. And I walked around all last Monday without realizing I had my underpants on sideways. (sideways!)

When large events come close, they shake us loose from old habits, it seems, and in my case at least, from a long-held habit of furtive fretting over my appearance.

Now sure, I realize many of us fret about our looks and take secret measures to improve them. Men have their barbers mow stray hairs from their ears and nostrils and they keep pretty mum about it. Women "treat" in various ways their own unwanted hair and keep mum too (an exception being my old friend Liz from down South who, en route to have hot wax painted on the tender skin above her lip would shout in a merry loud voice "I’m off to the beauty parlor to git ma mustache snatched!")

But me, I was never like Liz; until now, I kept my beauty secrets to myself.

In the past, when someone has said to me, "Well you have no grey hair!" I have modestly mumbled something about genes or luck, lying through my very teeth. Because the truth is a genial fellow named Randy gets 50 bucks out of me every six weeks to turn these curly locks "Cognac," or "Mahogany," or whatever fool name they call it on the bottle.

It was Randy, come to think of it, who provided me with my first example of the kind of truth-telling that’s begun to overtake me here.

Ten years ago, he was going bald. OK, he already WAS bald, as bald as an egg, and one day came to work sporting hair as thick and gorgeous as Ted Koppel’s.

A customer we’ll call Mrs. Brown said, "Why Randy! You look so different! What have you done?!" But Randy just smiled.

"Did you just grow that mustache?" she asked.

"No, Mrs. Brown," said Randy.

"Have you lost weight?"

"No, Mrs. Brown."

"I think it’s that you’re so tan! Have you—?"

"Mrs. Brown, I am bald," Randy finally exploded, laughing. "It’s a piece!" he shouted, as he lifted that pricey rug clear off his head.

I love that story. In these times of uncertainty especially, its honesty appeals to me immensely.

Don’t get me wrong though. I’ve always believed that it’s fine to change your hair or wear lifts in your shoes or have the wrinkles ironed clear off your face if it helps you be self-forgetful and focus on the other guy. I guess I’m just skipping that stuff in the middle and going right for self-forgetfulness.

Pretty soon I hope I can take on the day knowing I even have my undies on right. But this new loss of vanity I kind of like, since it truly does free me to put my focus elsewhere.

Because let’s face it: Long after we’ve begun sleeping more normally and calling our dolls by their real names, that Other Guy is STILL going to need our help.

Feel free to contact Terry at tmarotta@mediaone.net