This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
This is me in 1989. I was the editor of a Utah County weekly and sporting what wasn't quite a mullet. I look like a dork, or at least a younger version of the goof that I am today.
There are worse photos of me, ones that would make my wife furious were I to post them. She says they aren't fair representations of the man she married. I say it's because she doesn't want people to see what she stooped to.
Never mind that. There's a reason I'm showing this picture of my attempt at long hair. That reason is time. Also, regret.
A couple of weeks ago, I was riding TRAX to work. Two young guys heading to the University of Utah got on and sat facing me a few rows away. They were tricked out in what passes for fashion in some circles — nose rings, neck and arm tats, and wheel rims in their earlobes.
I wondered how they were going to feel about that look in another 30 years. Will they be doing everything they can to hide pictures of themselves from back in the day when they decided to express their individuality by looking like a whole bunch of other people?
This isn't a geezer rant against pierced ears, nostril mechanics or tattoos. I got ink. I've pierced an ear before. I've also had a .45-caliber round stuck in my nose for the better part of a day. I understand the capriciousness of styling.
No, this is about what's cool now — and regrettable later. I have a lot of experience with regrettable later.
Fortunately, I kept my shine shallow. I had my mullet cut off. I stopped dressing like a disco clown. The Army shaved my head down to the bone. I quit unraveling the bottom hems of my Levis. I gave up wearing surfer crosses and greasing my hair. And penny loafers no longer require an actual penny in them.
Eventually, I became the uncool wretch you see three times a week in this column. I have no more bump to me now than an elderly mule.
Except for a small tattoo and a deviated septum, there's nothing left of the cool me except embarrassing pictures that prove I once preferred fashion over sense.
I have no idea how the two frat boys on TRAX are going to look when they reach my age. Ink doesn't just scrub off. Lobes stretched beyond a couple of gauges don't close up by themselves. And having a snake tattooed around your neck doesn't bode well for most careers.
There's also the money side of being awesome. Not only is it expensive to get, it can also be even more expensive to un-get.
But let's assume for a moment that all that gets fixed, or that you meet someone who doesn't mind being seen with someone whose face looks like an uncomfortable saddle.
There's still the evidence floating around that will one day make your kids (provided your genital piercings haven't gone horribly sideways) scream with laughter.
Them: "What a skizz, Dad. How much did a circus pay you to look like that?"
You: "Well, kids, your father used to think a lot of himself, and was deeply disturbed.
That might work. Or you could just do what I do and tell them, "Wait awhile, smart [aleck]."
And don't forget to take lots of pictures. You can later sell them to your grandchildren.
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.