When it comes to the QB's hair, let it be
Dear Tom Brady: It’s been a while since I wrote anything in particular about you, and a lot of stuff has happened in the interim, but, frankly, I don’t care about most of it. You’re married and happy, and that’s a good thing, and what your wife does for a living is no concern of mine. But the thing I care least about is your hair. I know this may come as a shock to many people in my business who believe I should care about it, but I truly don’t. Long about the time the Beatles hit Ed Sullivan, I decided that I would not care about anyone’s hair except my own. The full ramifications of that decision had to wait until I got to college, because the Sisters of St. Joseph – who taught me in elementary school – and the Xaverian Brothers, who shuffled me through high school, all cared very deeply about my hair, for theological and pedagogical reasons that always escaped me. (I could have looked like Sgt. Rock or Jerry Garcia, I still wouldn’t have understood algebra.) But I fully adopted this first principle while in college – the Jesuits weren’t so picky – and it has held me in good stead. So I don’t really care how long it is or how much (if any) of it was derived through medical science. The only hair I’m worried about in the upcoming playoffs belongs to that Polamalu guy in Pittsburgh, because bad things seem to follow after it.
Charles P. Pierce is a Globe Magazine staff writer. E-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org.