The Fairest One of All

“People kill for hair this color.” Every time I get my haircut, the stylist remarks about it. But I haven't always been comfortable with my appearance because white hair and pale skin have meant people have stared at me my whole life. It's hard to remember a time when I didn't feel like I was on display. As a child, I remember this unwarranted gawking bothering my mother quite a bit. We'd be out at the mall, at the movies or maybe out to eat and her face would tighten into a scowl, “They're staring at you,” she'd hiss, remarking about a group of people I, in most instances, didn't even notice. 

Sometime in eighth grade I started to say, “If people are going to stare at me, I at least want to control why they stare.” I figured if I dyed my hair a shocking color, people would stare because of a choice I made about my appearance and not because of a mathematically improbable genetic shortcoming; so, I dyed my hair blue using food coloring. I thought this was taking ownership. Unfortunately, school administration wasn't on board with my self-expression. I was called into the office even though, Eleanor, a really popular girl whose hair was dyed in really cool sparkly streaks, was never in trouble for her hairstyle. The Vice Principal was named Mr. Lynch and he was a short, fat bald man with a mustache and an ego as fragile as those of the pubescent pupils he patrolled. He said my dyed hair was disturbing classes, but he was probably just jealous I had any hair to dye. My mom was called in from work and, according to her, she yelled at Mr. Lynch but I was still sent home, which was a much easier way to make sure nobody stared at me. I wanted to believe “If people are going to stare at me, I at least want to control why they stare” was my philosophy, but the truth is I just wanted to fit in. I wanted people who were ballsy and cool to think of me that way. I hoped dyeing my hair would gain me a social group and someday, just maybe, the affection of a woman. I'd love to tell you getting sent home from school solidified my reputation as a dangerous rebel, got Eleanor's attention and we became fast friends who fell in love, but the truth is I was a ghost with acne and poor hygiene and Eleanor and I never even spoke to one another. 

Freshman year of high school I couldn't figure out how to take care of myself because I couldn't figure out who I thought I was supposed to be. I'd expected to play football but when the doctors wouldn't let me because of my eyesight (See Fun with Balls and Sticks), the dickhead jock persona I probably would've cultivated was out the window and I had to find a different identity entirely. As a result, Freshmen year was basically a return to seventh grade levels of depression and an abandonment of all self-care. I grew my hair long, I didn't bathe, wash my clothes regularly or care about my appearance. I hated myself too much to even overcompensate for the fact I hated myself. One day two Persian girls with really hairy necks came up to me in the hallway and told me I needed to wear deodorant because I stunk. I tried to dye my hair red and it turned out peach. By sophomore year I was bathing because I liked a girl but I got way into punk rock so nobody stopped staring; though, now they stared because I had a green mohawk or a shaved head and a bomber jacket with patches for bands they'd never heard of. They probably stared because they thought I was a neo-nazi. My Junior year, I was a fairly well groomed weirdo musician and people stared at me all the time, but it was partially because my closest friends were two really good-looking twin brothers, a guy who resembled a handsome Quentin Tarantino, a guy who looked exactly like John Travolta on steroids and my best friend was a dead ringer for Timothy McVeigh, the man who blew up the Oklahoma City Federal Building in 1995. 

Besides my albinism and friends, there are 100 other reasons people might have stared. Until I was 18, I was also morbidly obese. On July 27, 1997, a month away from starting Senior Year of high school, I was just under six feet tall and I weighed 290 pounds. Over the course of the next year, thanks to cultivating some discipline related to what I shoved in my mouth and late night jog sessions every single night regardless of weather, by July 27, 1998, a month away from starting college, I was just under six feet tall and weighed 190 pounds. Losing a small person and keeping most of it off has been one of the hardest things I've ever done and you know what's frustrating about it? I've now been in shape so long many of my friends from back then don't even remember that I lost 100 pounds in 12 months 18 years ago. 

Because I went to college in Boston and then transferred to UVA, many of the people around me were from wealthy families; as such, they dressed really well. I also had some kinda superficial, Seinfeldian friends, so I started to take a real interest in my appearance.  I wore jeans and a black t-shirt nearly all the time to try and look dangerous, except when I'd dress up to go out drinking. Now that I wore a 36 waist, I could shop at Lord & Taylor or J Crew. I took care of my face, shaving with a multi-bladed razor, nice shave cream and using an aftershave balm with no alcohol so as not to damage my skin. I became quite vain. By the end of college, my friend Lexi would describe me saying, “I mean, you have albinism. But if people can get over that, you're really hot.” But I couldn't 'get over that' because people still stared at me all the time. While I now recognize maybe people were staring at me in college because they liked what they saw, at no point did I feel good about their prowling eyes because at no point did I like the man staring back at me in the mirror. 

A misunderstanding of Bret Easton Ellis' fiction, led me to a period during which I really cared about clothes. In my 20s, I became a brand whore, only wearing Diesel jeans or other designer labels. I cared about some guy's name in my shoes or how much my watch cost. My value was reflected in what my sweater was made of or that people knew I had cool socks. I told myself a new version of the same old lie as I overpaid for haircuts. “If people are going to stare at me, I at least want them to like what they see.” Staring down and seeing “Hugo Boss” written on the inside of my coat momentarily made me hate myself less after someone called me “Grandpa,” “Frosty the Snowman” or remarked about “Powder.” Sure, I didn't know my value or values, in any sense of the word, but at least I knew my jacket was expensive. I could always tell you the total cost of everything I was wearing, right down to the Calvin Klein boxer briefs. A designer wardrobe was my costume. Diesel jeans, Cole Haan shoes and a Gucci sweater were the disguise I wore to convince myself and everybody else I was no longer that scared, stinky freshmen who hated himself so much he couldn't even bring himself to bathe. I'd come to like myself just enough to overcompensate for how much I hated myself. 

When I started riding my bike around Los Angeles instead of driving, (See Driver/ Driver) I became far less concerned about wearing designer clothes because anything I wore ended up drenched in sweat. Biking also demanded I focus on the world around me in ways I hadn't before. It didn't matter how much my underwear cost as I pedaled and swerved around BMWs on Melrose trying not to die. My actions mattered in a whole new way and having to stay focused on real world obstacles forced me to get out of my head. I also dropped 20 more pounds. 

It took 30 years for me to have an ass small enough to fit into a pair of Levi's jeans, but they looked great. And you know what? My cheap new jeans didn't matter. In fact, I got more attention in the Levi's than I ever got in Diesel jeans. Turned out nobody really noticed what I wore. Then my apartment got robbed and my nice watches were stolen. I used my cell phone to tell time and nobody noticed that either. I came to realize, nobody had noticed any of it. Nobody but me cared who made my clothes, nobody but me obsessed over my watch or my socks or my undershirt or that I used shaving balm without alcohol or put white strips on my teeth. Like a Bret Easton Ellis novel, most of the people I was trying to impress were too self-absorbed to notice anyone else's choices. And worse, I was too self-absorbed to notice they weren't noticing. It was eighth grade all over again: I wanted people to think I was cool, but nobody was paying attention. Even when they stared, nobody saw me. 

Or maybe my friends just saw through my costume to a version of me that I couldn't see yet. 

By paying more attention to my actions, words and deeds than the costume I'm wearing, I found a way to be more comfortable in my own skin. Today, I don't care about brands but I do take pride in my appearance. I remain very aware of how I dress because, while clothes aren't as important as I thought, costume still matters. Like anyone, my appearance and the effort I put into it send cues which inform other people how I treat myself and thus, how they ought to treat me. Three years ago, I started wearing a tie and jacket when I lecture. I was instantly taken more seriously by students at the colleges where I teach and by the staff members at the Chipotles near those colleges. Nobody really stares at me if I dress well now, they just treat me with respect. Because of my white hair, I think I just look like every other well put together middle-aged doofus. The anonymity is mostly liberating. And if I ever want to feel completely on display, I can always dye my hair or stop bathing.

Further Reading: Albinism and Aging: A Case Study by the Numbers