WORLD CUP USA 1994 : COMMENTARY : Valderrama Is Old Hat; to Be a Cut Above--Lalas-ize

These are the happy days and nights of Alexi Lalas: international soccer star, crowd favorite, rock-and-roll guitarist, free spirit; frequent-flier miles from here to Hong Kong; fame, fortune and females.

His life is better than mine.

It must be the hair.

I decided to get that hair.

In the soccer world of late, coiffeurs have passed corner kicks on the minds of many players. Hair-wise, World Cup ’94 makes Woodstock ’69 look like boot camp. The locks are flowing, often uncontrollably. Basketball players are shaving their heads; soccer stars are reshaping their heads. It’s a revolution brewing up there, and since these fellas seem to get all the adulation and attention, I figured I might as well get a cut of the action, so to speak.

Alas, there were so many options on what type of look I might adopt to become worshiped world-wide.

I considered the stylish Roberto Baggio of Italy, with his brilliantly braided ponytail. I considered speedy U.S. striker Cobi Jones, whose dreadlocks flap around like a mop on Methedrine. I considered slicked-back U.S. goalkeeper Tony Meola, who looks like somebody Ken Wahl used to put away on “Wiseguy.” I considered guys with modified Mohawks and Jeri curls.

But it came down to the glow-in-the-park boys of summer: the swirling, blonde Afro of Colombian midfielder Carlos Valderrama or the roguish, orange head of U.S. defender Lalas.

I leaned to Valderrama.

(Have you seen this guy? When Valderrama goes out, his hair gets to where he’s going about five minutes before he does. How does he get his hair that way? You’ve got to figure he walks into Supercuts, the barber says, “So, how’d you like it today?” and Valderrama answers, “Well, Henri, let’s push the envelope a little--let’s go for a 26-inch circumference today.”

But Valderrama ran into Lalas on Wednesday, and the result was United States 2, Colombia 1. A week ago folks were buying Valderrama wigs for $10; now they’re using them as scouring pads. Hey, I’m a front-runner, too--what, you think I should cut my hair to emulate some has-been who’s going to be flying back to Bogota in the cargo hold?

I, Alexi.

The problem was, how do I get from here to there? I have a history of bad haircuts, from flattops and crew cuts to Andalusian swirls and Psyche knots to bohemian bobs and swirl bobs and Flemish bobs and chignon bobs and contour bobs and coquette bobs. My hair doesn’t get styled, it gets stormed. I once had bangs that were banned in 42 states.

Hey, over the years I have found out that there is a fine line between “hair salon” and “lawn service.”

Part of the problem is my horrendous eyesight--once I’ve sat down in the chair and taken off my glasses, beauticians can turn me into a Chia Pet before I realize it.

So I went to Hairtech on Beverly Boulevard, a user-friendly salon and home of the fabulous Regina Jackson. (Cristophe, schmistophe--if Clinton had gotten a $200 haircut from Regina, he would’ve been hustling votes at Roxbury the same evening.) Regina has a fabulous touch; Hairtech is the only salon I’ve ever walked out of in which neighborhood kids don’t immediately start throwing rocks at me.

I sat down in Chair No. 1. (I always get Chair No. 1, right by the window, because it drums up business when paparazzi walking along the street see me inside the salon.)

I told Regina I wanted to become a Lalas look-alike. I handed her several photos of Lalas.

She looked at the photos and she looked at me.

She then told me in a very polite fashion--and I’m paraphrasing here--that she would do the best she could with the material with which she had to work.

Now, I had not yet taken off my glasses, so I could clearly see that she had the look Marcus Welby, M.D., used to have just before telling someone that a family member wasn’t going to pull through.

I took my glasses off and closed my eyes. I counted sweepers and clicked my heels together three times. I softly chanted, “FIFA, FIFA, FIFA,” under my breath. I felt her hands in my hair--it briefly recalled for me the only highlight of my senior prom--and I suddenly felt my head acting like it had a mind of its own.

I heard nearby whispers of disdain, but I just dismissed them as jealous customers disgruntled that I had Regina and Chair No. 1.

Time passed, I’m not quite sure how long, and then Regina gently put a hand on my shoulder and asked, “So, what do you think?”

I opened my eyes to a new world--Alexi Lalas’ world.

Even without my glasses, I could see that I had the hair. I had the look. I had the goatee.

I had that World Cup feeling.

I even wanted to exchange my shirt with the woman getting a pompadour over in Chair No. 4.

It was a remarkable resemblance, Alexi and I, particularly considering how much more well-developed my upper body is than his. We were one. I actually felt that I was he, suddenly getting angered about a red card issued April 16 in the U.S. game against Moldova.

I thanked Regina, shook hands with onlookers and left Hairtech remembering United States 2, Colombia 1 and thinking United States 1, Romania 0. As I made my way onto the street, people began staring and pointing. I swear--if I had been spinning a soccer ball on one of my fingers, I would’ve been signing autographs until game time today.