Clean-Shaven

An ear specialist confirmed it on Monday and gave me very expensive drops after a very expensive doctor visit while terrifying me with his casual statement, “There’s a hole in your ear drum.”

After my initial shock and panic, I squeaked out, “That doesn’t sound good.”

He just shrugged.

“What now?”

He said, “It depends on how long it’s been there.” Like I wouldn’t have noticed it?

The lack of bedside manner is baffling; how can someone not see my fear? Perhaps it’s because I mask it too well.

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Friday, it was haircut time again. I really thought that the biggest issue would be that I couldn’t hear her over the clippers. But alas, it was far more interesting — and hilarious. I’d already fumbled at the front desk. The receptionist was new — she didn’t know me. So, when she asked for my stylist’s name, I blanked. Completely. I knew her face. I knew the chair. But her name — Hailey, for the record — was not there. But I did know my own name, which she used to pull up my appointment. She gave me a hot towel and I waited.

A few minutes later, a woman in a mask walked over. Her hair was red and she looked right at me so I assumed it was Hailey. She asked me how I was. I gave her my rehearsed bit about my ear drum hole that is far more interesting than the weather and makes me memorable.

She reacted with genuine alarm. “What?!” Not a polite nod. Real concern.

Then she asked my first name.

And in a moment of slow-motion clarity, I realized this was not my stylist. She was prepping for her next client — a man with a very large, beautiful beard that needed trimming.

I am clean-shaven. I have been clean-shaven for a while. She had to be utterly baffled. Did she think I was there to get my ears trimmed instead? Was she on some weird version of Impractical Jokers? No, it was just a classic case of mistaken identity.

Last week I wrote about the earache and what it taught me — that the listener needs to be listened to. That asking to be heard isn’t selfish. But there’s another side to it. It’s not just about being heard. It’s about being seen.

I’ve spent most of my life wanting to be seen and making sure no one gets too close to look. The loud shirts. The jokes. The roles I’ve played — wrestling villain, theatre critic, therapist — that let me participate without ever being fully exposed.

I’ve gotten very good at being in the room without being in the room.

So maybe it shouldn’t surprise me when people don’t know me. I’ve been hiding in plain sight for decades. At some point, you can’t blame people for not seeing what you’ve trained them to look past.

Last weekend, though, I tried something different.

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I almost didn’t go.

My ear still hurt. I had a perfectly good excuse ready. But in this Threshold year, I’m trying to be brave.

So I drove to a gelato shop in Covington that was closed for the season. The workshop was in a side room — wooden floors, storefront windows facing the street. In news that should surprise no one, I was the first one there. I took off my shoes and sat in a chair and hoped it would hold me all day.

Nine of us, plus the facilitator. I was the only man in the room. I’d already scanned the windows, the exits, the sight lines from the sidewalk. Every time someone walked by outside and glanced in, my body tensed.

We started simple. Mirror someone’s movement. Say your name. Follow along. Low stakes. The kind of thing I could manage with minimal angst.

Then the facilitator gave us a choice. If we wanted to, we could lie on the floor and move — roll around, stand up, do whatever — while the room watched. For two minutes. She also said we didn’t have to.

Eight people got on the floor.

I didn’t.

I was the only one who stayed in my chair. A man-mountain of “no thank you” while eight women moved in front of me. I felt shame that I wouldn’t do it, relief that I didn’t have to, and a quiet pride that I was still in the room at all. I hadn’t left. I hadn’t made the excuse.

Then we made shapes with our bodies. Held them. Let people see us in them.

I hated it. My shapes were boxy. Linear. I leaned against the wall. I sat in a chair. I looked like a man waiting for his number to be called at the deli counter while everyone else was dancing.

But then the words came.

We each had to say three sentences while holding a shape. Two prepared, one not. I looked across the room at someone I trusted and said:

This year, I’ve set a goal to dance in public for the first time.

Then, without planning it — from somewhere beneath the scanning and the hypervigilance and the forty-nine years of finding the sturdiest, safest chair in the room:

It will be the thing that finally frees me.

And then, my second prepared sentence:

My heart is ready, but my head won’t let me.

I got really nice feedback about the words but also my delivery. I stood there taking it in, which is its own kind of uncomfortable. I’m really glad I went.

I’m still having trouble hearing clearly. And others are struggling to see me. But when I put myself out there, I am seen and heard - and while terrifying, it’s also kind of neat. Like my clean-shaven face.

Kirk Sheppard is a therapist, author, and theater blogger in Cincinnati. He turns 50 in March, and he’s writing about it all year. Go to kirksheppard.com for more.