Portrait of Dorian Brown - Part 2

Me dyeing my beard brown is not to get more attention, it's just to hold onto the attention that I’ve always gotten and rightfully belongs to me. Unfortunately I have no proof of ownership and there is no deed or contract that would hold up in court. I do have eye witnesses though, the other gay men my age who remember when I first arrived in the Castro 16 years ago, a time period which I affectionately call "When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth" from the movie of the same name.  Of course in my mind I was the T-Rex.  No one wants to be the Brontosaurus. I see them and they see me and we acknowledge each other with nods of respect as we stomp by.  "Good to see you are still alive," we think as we smile and wave. What are they thinking when they see my schizophrenic beard go from gray to brown to gray to brown again. I feel a particular shame in front of the ones who have fully embraced their grayness and are at more peace with themselves than I obviously am.
   Since I started writing this blog 2 months ago, I have been ready to embarrass, expose, humiliate and thrown myself under the bus whenever possible for yours and my entertainment.  This topic, however, hits me right at my core, and revealing it publicly strips me naked. It's no secret to anyone in my life that attention is very important to me. Revealing this about myself is like Liberace revealing he was gay.  If he actually had ever revealed it--which amazingly he did not--even on his satin and fur covered King Louie XVI in-laid gold canopied death-bed. The fact that everyone knows this about me doesn’t make it any easier to actually talk about.  For some strange reason, admitting you enjoy attention is as off-putting as admitting you are a pedophile. Even Hollywood stars won't admit they thrive on attention even though achieving attention is the single greatest purpose of their lives. It shows a lack of humility, even if the humility is false. With that said, I would like to confess that I have loved getting the attention I have gotten and I do not know how to live without.  I am hoping that just by writing it down for everyone to see, I will get a little closer to the place where attention is not so important anymore. 
     So why do I need so much attention? What could have possibly caused this? The fault, of course, lies where all fault lies--with my mother Priscilla. She is the most fun to blame, and the most obvious. My mother is one of the great attention mongers of all time. Even her name mongers attention. I mean really, what Jewish woman is named Priscilla? Only pilgrims and drag queens and Elvis' wife are named Priscilla.  My mother was more of a walking installation than a normal person. She went beyond just dressing herself; she decorated herself, like other people decorate a room. I never knew who would be stepping out of her closet--a 1920's flapper, Annie Oakley, Esmeralda The Gypsy, Cleopatra or Captain Hook's wife in a big-sleeved pirate shirt, baggy pants tucked into tall black boots and an eye-patch for effect. She had outfits from all different eras, and coats and jackets with shoulder epaulets from wars she never heard of. She didn't care who won the wars, just as long as the clothing looked good on her. Every year to celebrate the Kentucky Derby she dressed in equestrian riding gear and rode around Great Neck in our Cadillac instead of on a horse. She wasn’t shy about hats either, and would put anything on the top of her head: an old turban, a fez, a beret, a fedora, a pillbox, a sailor cap, a black bowler, even an old safari hat from the 1930’s like she was dressed for the hunt. It was even worse in the winter when she could add to her wardrobe all the different fur coats and hats she borrowed from my father's used fur store. She had my father make matching raccoon coats for him, her, my brother Mitchell, my sister Melissa and me. In the name of family unity, the five if us would go out on cold Sundays all in our raccoons, causing a commotion wherever we went. She made it feel like it was totally normal and what to expect.  Add my thick glasses and my stutter to the raccoon coat and the level of attention got even worse. I was teased relentlessly, more than any other boy in school, making me very well known. That's the thing about being the most teased and always chosen last for any team --- it puts you in a very special light that you share with no one else. The boy who got picked second to last never experiences what I always felt.  The only other one who experienced that level of attention I got was the boy who was picked first.  This means that the first picked and the last picked are more similar than they realize.  I became accustomed to the attention, even if it was bad. It's like what they say about bad press still being press. I never asked for it, so you see it wasn't my fault. It was only my fault after I started creating it for myself. It happened when I was 15, when I was ready to flip and become my opposite equal. I knew exactly what to do because I had been watching it from the outside for so long. I got contact lenses, started working out and became the class clown. I didn't have to bother with making myself known because everyone already knew the former me. The transformation shocked everyone, especially my family, but it made perfect sense to me.  It's like moving to San Francisco from New York. They are the furthest apart from each other on opposite coasts but the closest to each other in their political influence and importance to gay culture. It's a strictly lateral move, each city being the only other alternative for the other. Nothing appealing lies in between.
  The hallways in school, once war-zones I would scurry through dodging bullies instead of bullets, became my stage. I couldn't wait for each class to end so I could count how many people I could say hello to before the next class started. Instead of being first into my seat I was usually the last, and had to be told to sit down and stop talking. Sometimes I got in trouble for passing notes and even got sent down to the principle's office, things that only happened to popular people. Places I used to dread like the cafeteria and The Student Lounge became my favorite spots to be. Wherever people gathered was where I wanted to be. It got worse after high school when I moved into the city and started going to gay bars, gay beaches and gay gyms, where my hairiness turned into a real commodity. Even my stutter started working in my benefit. It disarmed people, and actually became alluring to some men, something as a child I never imagined my stutter would be. I also never imagined that going bald would work in my favor as much as it has and would keep the attention coming. 
  So there it is, a lifetime of attention. One of the few constants in my life. Something I could always count on. I don't know how to let it go yet, even though in actuality the attention doesn't need my permission or approval to leave. Seeing how easy it has been to get a lot of it back just by dyeing my beard has been too tempting to resist. I get 5 years back in five minutes, which is much easier and far less extreme than what other men are opting to do to themselves. They spend thousands of dollars playing an endless cat 'n mouse game on their faces, trying to chase away every imperfection.  Luckily for me, I'll never have to make the decision to have work done or not for the simple reason that I don't have the money. The choice is made for me. It's the men who have the money who are faced with a real dilemma.  They can play the game if they want to. The division is happening already. Only the poor will grow wrinkled as they get old.
    No one comes to mind more than my dear, dear, dear Australian friend, Michael V. He is grossly over-paid and strangely under-wrinkled.  He has a very senior position in Human Resources for a huge company and is responsible for occasionally hiring but mostly firing people, a job perfectly suited for someone as proudly vile and contemptuous as him. I've been anxiously waiting for him to age but he’s had the same baby face for 15 years.  Last time he visited San Fran I still had a gray beard and he made sure to point out my aging.
"Thank you for getting old enough for the both of us, darling. It's very thoughtful of you," he pecked my cheek and patted my back." It's amazing how every time I see you Gary, you get older, and grayer, and balder, and poorer, and I think even shorter."
     " I don't understand. How do you look the same year after year? What are you having done?"
    " Everything you can't afford." 
    " You can't keep it up forever"
    " As long as there's white rhino horns and blue whale blubber left in the world I can."
Michael V is coming to visit in a month and he has no idea I'm dyeing my beard now. I can't wait to see his face. Even if he says something awful I know he's going to like it.  And when we walk together I'll be sure to point out the attention I'm still getting. I realize this is just stalling the inevitable and sooner or later I will be facing my greatest fear, but hopefully by that time it will no longer be a fear. Hopefully it will just be something to laugh about like everything else in my life seems to be. Eventually all my body hair will be gray and I'll have to swim in a tank of "Just For Men" Medium Brown to keep up the charade. 
   Just give me a few years to re-adjust myself. They say that for every 5 years of an ended romance, it takes one additional year to get over it. That means since I've had a romance with the attention I've gotten for almost 50 years, I should be totally over it in only 10 long years. What a relief!