So, what’s with the funky headband, dude?

Well, I used to wear one to keep hair out of my eyes.

Hey, it was 1974. Gimme a break.


["It's not a good look": photo by PAH, wife of GAH]

It wasn’t a good look for me, I admit, but because my hair and beard were just a tad longer than the navy blue shag carpet in our rented house in Old North London (sure, it sounds like a sophisticated address but trust me, ya gets what ya pay for!) an unflattering headband was an important accessory while jogging.

[Note to runners: In the ‘70s ‘jogging’ was the appropriate term. ‘Wanna go for a jog’ was a very popular request on my block, second only to ‘what’s that you have growing in your backyard?’ And yes, white socks to the knee were all the rage. Sorry, I digress, though only slightly.]

I have the accompanying and significant photo pinned to a corkboard in my workshop.

It reminds me that I was about two inches taller in ‘74. (Maybe because of the tennis shoes and high hair).

It reminds me, every time I look at it, that my life is blessed.

My first son was three and a half years old in 1974, wanted to run with me, completed the one mile route without difficulty and when we arrived home said to me, “Let’s do it again.”

I’ve had many running partners since, but never a better one.

The photo reminds me how much my two boys have changed and contributed to my life. We connect on many different levels; as runners, thinkers, fathers, lovers of music, art and sips of single malt, for starters only. They (and their mother) are the main reason I smile with confidence.

Though we don’t agree on everything on this we’re firm - we’ll never wear headbands again.

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