Reflections on Hair

I am about to cut all the hair on my head and shave off all of my facial hair.

It started as a simple fund raising idea for the organization I work for.  In a gambit to raise a minimum of $1500 from friends and family, I foolishly promised that I would let myself be subjected to a Kojak-like do-over if it happened.  And it did.  For those of you who might not know who the 1970’s TV character Kojak was, he was a detective.  A bald detective.  A lollipop sucking bald detective.  And I will soon be like him. Well, maybe not the lollipop part. But first, before I submit to a public shearing, I feel the need to reflect back over all the different manifestations my hair and I have gone through over the years.

When I was between the ages of 3 to 12 years, I didn’t know that there was any kind of haircut other than the flattop.  It was an uncomplicated thing:  you went to the corner barber shop, sat in the hydraulic chair (on the kid seat that lay across the arms of the chair when you were three) and let the amiable and talcum-smelling barber wrap a piece of tissue paper and an apron around your neck, listen to his jokes about whether you were ready for a shave, and sit quietly as he made you tilt your head forward, back and to the side while he ran a noisy electric razor around it.   The most important part of the process came when your hair was a uniform quarter-inch long on top and you got to buy a red plastic tube of a petroleum paste - Butch Wax - a concoction that would miraculously have your hair standing in a militaristic salute for at least a day.  This simple and low maintenance hair style lasted well into my early teens, morphing slightly over the years to include a bit of a pompadour variation in the front.

Then the sixties came to fruition and the changes of a ‘Tune in, Turn On and Drop Out’ generation began to spread across the land. 

The first time I attempted to let my hair grow long – it would have been around 1970 - my ex-military dad and I faced off in our first serious confrontation over teenage rights and responsibilities. Spouting “no son of mine!”, he threatened to drag me to the barber shop by the very same hair I was starting to let grow over my ears and collar.  He would have done it, too.  And the neighborhood barber would have complied without hesitation, even if it meant strapping me to the chair.  It was my peace- making mother, with an “as long as he keeps it clean’ argument that ultimately saved me from bruised body and shorn head.  And so my hair began to grow (I generally kept it clean to thank my mother for her intervention), reaching about mid-back at its longest.   All of the influences and motivations to let it grow were there:  the Beatles, Frank Zappa, the Rolling Stones, and Woodstock – all of it feeding into my desire and ability to ‘wave my free flag’.  

However, my first foray into long-hair rebellion only lasted a short time.  At the age of 18, during a “small town what am I going to do to get out of here?” fit of depression, I walked out of a third shift job at the local textile factory and into a three-year enlistment in the army.  An overnight bus ride to the Army training facility of Fort Dix, New Jersey found me sitting once again in a barber chair, this time under the leering glare of a Drill Sergeant who leaned over to get a close look as my curly locks fell to the floor, laughingly stating.  “Say goodbye to your pretty hair, little Susie; you’re property of the Army now…” 

Rebellion, even if it’s only in the guise of a snub of your nose at military rules and regulations, is still sweet.  I soon figured out that the Army guidelines on hair merely stated that it could not fall over your ears or touch your collar in the back.  There were enough hair gels and goop on the market that slicking my growing hair up onto the sides and technically off my ears was easy.  A quick wash in the evening when prescribed work was done (Hey, I was a clerk-typist in an elite security branch of the military.  It was a nine-to-five deal) and Presto! – I was at least somewhat presentable for an evening of rock, roll and getting off base and on the town!  

A few dozen jars of hair gel got me through those three long years of regimented hell, and when I finally scooted back into civilian life, I was ready to let it all hang out.  I have a photograph from the period shortly after my escape from the military where some say I have a strong resemblance to Charlie Manson.  Oh, I wasn’t able to compete with some of my more Cro-Magnon, thick-maned, afro-sporting, bushy-headed friends – my mother had made sure of that by passing along to me and all but one of my four sisters a decidedly THIN strain of hair (no matter the length of my hair – putting it into a pony tail inevitably made me look like I had a curly little pig's tail on the back of my head.  But I made do, and was able to maintain a hippie-like countenance well into the middle of the 1980’s.

Alas, age and responsibility catch up to all of us.  I think in my case it has been a mix that leans more strongly to the age part of the equation.  I am still a bit of a rebel;  believing in the right of all of us to express our  individuality in all the ways that challenge the ruling norm – even supporting those manifestations of personal creativity that I find a bit weird (you know – excessive body piercing, those extended ear lobe ring things…).  And, of course, supporting most any and all variations of hair styles and lengths.  But, progressively thin hair (not THINNING, he said with a certain huff and puff!)  makes for a difficult presence in the ‘serious’ world of professional interaction – especially when a passing breeze can turn a carefully coiffed semi-long appearance into something bordering between a crazed street person and Donald Trump.

So, now I arrive full-circle (well, actually more than full circle).  In a few days, honoring my commitment to a great group of people who not only understood the fun of a challenge based on a fictional TV character but appreciated the importance of supporting a good cause, I will sacrifice my hair to posterity.  But heck, it should grow back, right?.  Eventually?  It WILL grow back, won't it? And anyway, the type of freedom flag  I can wave has gotten much bigger and broader over the years.