How we change.
My mother hated that. When I slicked it back.
Actually, my mother disliked my hairdo all of her life. She died at 90 still preferring a different coif on my crown. You couldn’t satisfy the woman.
Well, and satisfy me at the same time.
She had probably given up on having a clean-cut son at this point. To her way of thinking, I was totally out of control, hair-wise.
One thing you can see from the first two shots is that my hair was black as night, and since I was a sun-worshipper and lived in the South, I was usually so heavily tanned that I could have passed as a Puerto Rican.
The years went by, and the black hair morphed gradually into salt-n-pepper, and then it went totally snowball white. Gazooks!
It’s Felipe Zapata’s face to the public.
I don’t know who this fellow is. Actually, it’s a painting, not a photo, so maybe it’s nobody, and I can claim him totally as my own.
I like the way he looks. I feel like he looks. Those are my eyes.
Maybe my mother would have liked me this way, but I doubt it.