Seeing red over NFL pink

A flamboyant shade is making an unwelcome intrusion amidst all the splendid fall foliage.

It’s pink and it’s everywhere. It’s on buildings, advertisements and all over every aspect of the televised extravaganzas that make up the manly broadcasts involving the NFL.

Has anyone else noticed this or am I the only one?

Of course you have and of course you know the reason why.

The panoply of pink is in support of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It is the third leading killer cancer (second is colorectal whose awareness month is March, by the way). The National Cancer Institute says about 40,000 women will die from breast cancer this year.

I remember being devastated 30 years ago when my Mom was diagnosed. It was a grim 18 months of fears, false hopes and tenuous success that cost her both her breasts. She’s been cancer-free ever since.

So please believe me when I say I adore breasts and the women who sport them.

What I despise is symbolism.

And the epidemic of pink infuriates me because it allows people who should be doing more to fool people into thinking they’re doing anything.

Of course, I’m thinking primarily of the craven greed maestros who run the NFL.

They dress their players, their coaches, their referees, their goal posts and every aspect of their telecasts in pink. There are pink towels, pink cleats, pink hats and pink jerseys you can purchase with the proper credit card at NFLSHOP.com

Understand, this isn’t about women’s health. This is purely about marketing.

This is part of the NFL scheme to feminize our most masculine game. They’re eager to to cultivate the nearly 50 percent of the population that doesn’t reflexively reach for the remote every Sunday at 1 p.m. Plus, every time they release a new jersey, they know many of their loyal fans will shell out money to buy the trendy new color schemes.

Not wishing to be so cynical, I thought it wise to do a little research before I began tossing around inflammatory accusations about such a sensitive topic.

And I found out I was wrong.

I’m not cynical enough.

See for yourself at www.nfl.com/pink. It has important health messages, but the quoted gist of the month-long program is: “To help support this important cause, purchase your NFL pink merchandise at NFLSHOP.com.”

It says nothing about “a portion of proceeds will go to benefit . . .” or if the NFL will match any donations.

No, the colossal organization that spent the summer childishly arguing about how to divvy up $9.3 billion in revenue wants you to write a check, but seems reluctant to write one of its own.

Rather than a month of garish gridiron pink, I’d prefer seeing Roger Goodell announce, “Today the NFL owners and players together presented the American Cancer Society with a check for $50 million. We are asking the companies that run beer, car and sneaker commercials during our broadcasts to do the same.”

I guess I’m just like Cosmo Kramer from “Seinfeld.” And, really, the parallels are many. We’re both terrific mooches, devote our days to harebrained schemes and skate through life without any visible means of support.

But I’m talking primarily about our refusal to wear the ribbon. It nearly cost Kramer his life in the 1995 episode “The Sponge.”

He generously devotes his morning to an AIDS walk, but begs off when he’s asked to wear the AIDS ribbon. Whether it’s for reasons of fashion or if, like me, he has a philosophical aversion to symbolic gestures, it doesn’t say.

All we see is that two militant gay men named Cedric and Bob attack Kramer for refusing to wear the ribbon.

At least I’m inferring they’re militant gays. That too is left unsaid. All we know is the men act like an affectionate couple, are ribbon bullies and in a previous episode showed an affinity for Elaine’s antique armoire.

And when they find out Kramer won’t wear the ribbon they go medieval on his ass.

I wouldn’t want that to happen to me. And I wouldn’t want to slight anyone who may be going through the very real tribulations of breast cancer.

I just want everyone to understand nothing’s really being done about breast cancer just because Steeler coach Mike Tomlin wears a ballcap with pink accents.

I’ll be more impressed when October is more about giving the green than wearing the pink.

At least my hair's growing up

Barbers look at my hair the way gardeners look at weeds. That’s the sense I was getting the other day when I told the gal who cuts my hair I want to let it grow.

I want for my hair what I want for my children.

I want it to reach its full potential. I want it to be uninhibited. I want it to revel in the world for however long it is able.

“But you look so much better with short hair,” she says.

I resist the urge to tell her she’d look so much better with her face hidden behind a copy of my 2003 book, “Hole-in-One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore on Golf’s Luckiest Shot!” (Andrews McMeel, current Amazon Bestsellers Rank, 1,505,957).

It’s clearly in her self-interest that everyone walks around looking like Sinead O’Connor. 

But I don’t want to say anything to hurt her feelings, particularly when she’s waving a straight razor near my jugular.

Plus, I like her. She’s what my old man used to call a “broad.” She swears, tells bawdy jokes, and says her next shop will have a pool table and a keg of free beer for customers.

What a gal.

I spent about as much time looking for her as I did for a good bride.

A trip to the barber shop has always meant a lot to me. I’m convinced our late father never moved south to escape bitter winters because being away from Tony the barber would have killed him as surely as perpetual darkness kills petunias.

Besides a tidy trim, Tony brought light into our lives. He taught me my first dirty joke, how to place an illegal wager and he let me look at the Playboy magazines he kept in the drawer under the shelf with all the witch hazel.

About 10 years ago, Tony, besides hair, started cutting back his hours and I started getting my hair cut nearer to home. I tried the most popular and efficient barber in town. For $6.50, he could in four minutes make Samson resemble drill instructor extraordinaire R. Lee Ermey.

Of course, I wound up looking like every other guy in town.

My bar is full of them. Their heads are practically shaved. When two of them put their heads together to talk confidentially about guns, Sarah Palin or NASCAR, the combined effect looks like one wide bottom is trying make an angry point by mooning some invisible cross-bar antagonist.

I didn’t want any part of that.

So I went for a long extended purgatory in the awful unisex salons where I felt they were psychologically cutting off things more dear to me than hair every time I was assaulted by music from people like Beyonce.

That’s why I was thrilled to find Eileen, whose little shop is near my Mom’s place. She has a fellow barber, a Navy veteran whose every customer strolls out of the shop looking like they could be piped aboard a destroyer to commence swabbing poop decks.

It’s not the look I’m after so I go on Tuesdays when Eileen has the run of the place. There’s an old dog, a friendly clientele and lively banter to enrich the life of a guy who spends so much time alone with his imaginary friends, his imaginary employers and all their imaginary paychecks.

I knew she’d be resistant to my goals to grow my hair long, something I haven’t done in 20 year.

True, my hair is exhibiting signs of male pattern baldness. I’ve got the makings of one of those little monk caps on the crown and the forehead’s becoming a fivehead. Soon, I’ll have one of those little Nixonian tufts that look like some skilled motorcyclist burned rubber down the top of my skull.

So I guess I want to give the hairs that have stuck around a sort of farewell tour. Maybe that’ll convince a few of the wafflers to hang in there, that the fun’s just getting started.

Really, I’m not letting my hair down, I’m letting it up. I don’t want hippy hair like San Francisco Giant pitcher Tim Lincecum (way to go, Giants!).

I want to look like Einstein. I want go-to-hell hair.

Because I just don’t care. My wife’s not going to leave me if I’m having a bad hair day (although just at lunch she gave me a sarcastic, “Nice hair, Cosmo.”). 

My kids won’t run in shame if they see me approaching with unruly hair. Well, they won’t run any faster than they already do.

So that’s my plan. I’m letting my hair go wild. I’ll spend about six seconds on it in the morning and then it’ll be free to behave like East Germans did after the Berline Wall came down.

It can have a party.

Let’s call it a last hair-rah.