We don’t ever know what we look like to others, do we?

I think I’ve gleaned some things about myself. I look British because of my pale skin, crowded teeth, and blue eyes. I’ve often felt that people can perceive me as some combination of approachable and gullible given how often I am picked out of a New York crowd to give directions or asked for money from a homeless person. One thing that I’ve always felt about me is that I certainly look non-threatening.

Although, within the last year, I started shaving my head.

One of the odder discoveries I made during the pandemic was how much traffic goes through my relatively quiet Park Slope street during the day, especially from noon to 1:00. There tend to be FedEx and UPS deliveries around this time. Add an Amazon delivery or a moving van and cars pile up behind him. And then they honk. And honk. And honk.

I can’t stand it.* When it gets really bad, I can hear neighbors shouting at cars to stop.

* I want to tell the honkers, “You know this does nothing, right? You’re just registering frustration with an annoying sound. This is your fault. This is a narrow street and people make deliveries on this street at exactly this time every day. So, sit quietly and be patient. I assure you that you will move shortly.” Unfortunately, that doesn’t fit on a sign.

On one such day this last July, a guy decided to lean on his horn and not let up until the offending car moved. His sustained honk went on for minutes.

I was getting back from the grocery store as he started and continued perpetrating one of the most annoying noises known to man on every person in my street.

I ran up the stairs to my second-floor apartment with bags in my hands, past my neighbor whose greeting I ignored, dropped my groceries in my kitchen and then ran back downstairs to the sidewalk to scream, “STOP. FUCKING. HONKING.”

And he did.

He was either on Uber or Lyft driver and I watched his fares get out of his car and then he sheepishly said, “I’m just trying to work.”

I turned to go back inside and that’s when I realized what I was wearing. The Euro championships were on this summer and I was wearing my England national team jersey. As I said, I look rather British already but add to that the shaved head and months of pent up anger over needless noise pollution and I suppose I presented a different version of myself to this man.

I must have looked like a full on hooligan.*

* It has been brought to my attention that not everyone knows what a hooligan is. I am referring to a breed of English soccer fan known primarily for his violence and intoxication as described in Bill Buford’s book Among the Thugs and portrayed in films such as Green Street Hooligans and The Firm with Gary Oldman. The nadir – or apex, depending on your point of view – of hooliganism occurred in the Thatcher 80’s in England though it can still be found in various forms all over Europe.

And that’s when I truly understood something my girlfriend at the time had told me, “You know, you don’t really know what you look like anymore.”

She had said this the first time after I had purchased a leather jacket. I’d wanted one for a while, a legit one that I could keep forever and would slowly age and fit me perfectly. I went to Schott, the original leather jacket maker. I didn’t think I could pull off the classic motorcycle style – the one Brando and then the Ramones popularized – with the diagonal zipper and the small pocket and the leather belt around the waist. So, I went for the less complicated cafe racer style, slim and black.

And yet, when I wore it, I was still a white guy with a shaved head in a black motorcycle jacket. My girlfriend said, “I don’t know, maybe it could use like a Black Lives Matter button? Just to offset the whole thing?”

I did notice what she was talking about. Pre-pandemic, I kept my hair. It was thinning at the front and required regular cuts along the sides and daily product to give the illusion that there was more hair on top than there actually was. I also had a lot of band t-shirts that I had secretly gotten at Old Navy: Guns ‘n Roses and AC/DC were in heavy rotation. I also bought a Nirvana Nevermind shirt in Seattle.

When I wore them with hair, they seemed kind of ironic, just a non-threatening adult male reliving the bands of his youth. All of a sudden, with a shaved head, I looked like the dude who works at the guitar shop (even though he doesn’t actually play) and sells bags of oregano to eighth graders out of the back of his car.

Another time, I was texting with an old friend, someone who knew my mother when they were still in their twenties. She asked me to text her a picture because she hadn’t seen me in a while. So, I sent a selfie of myself with my arm around my girlfriend. The text that came back was “So… how are your politics these days?”* She is Jewish and of a generation where head shaving wasn’t as common. But still, I was wearing a button-down shirt and smiling with my arm around a woman. Even then I could have looked like a skinhead.

* I briefly considered sending her a response along the lines of, “It has nothing to do with politics, I’ve been woken up to the TRUTH!” but though better of it.

I like how I look now. I think it suits me and after years of balding, it’s finally over. I no longer feel panic when I’m about to see a picture of myself. I don’t have to wonder, “oh shit, how bald do I look?” Now I know: completely.

I also like my leather jacket and the slip-on black Vans with glow in the dark skulls on them that I bought on sale. Maybe the look doesn’t exactly match the man, but I don’t mind.

I’m still the same person, the same bookish web developing comedian who has never landed nor taken a punch with a closed fist in his life. I feel bad that I yelled at that driver. He shouldn’t have been honking like that, but I could have handled it better. I don’t want to scare anyone, you know?

But I’ve gotta be honest, it’s nice knowing that I’ve got that move in my back pocket.