I need a haircut
The last time I sat in a barber’s chair, it was right before Thanksgiving. If you look at me, it wouldnt’ seem that long ago but it feels that way. At least to others. I remember a time when I couldn’t care less about my hair, especially when I was young because it wasn’t my responsibility.
In my case, it was up to my mom to take me to the barber. As I got older, there was a brief period when I would ask to go. It was about that time, a 3-year run in the late 1980s, that my social scene in suburban New Jersey consisted of playing in the street, walking to and from the library, dancing at bar and bat mitzvahs and gathering for WWF Pay-per-view events with my high top fade.
Sooner or later than that time, my sister dated a barber that lived in my basement. So I was the lucky recepient of free hair cuts at the price of test dummy. Or in this case, test head. It turned out as good as it could with various twists and turns parted into my head.
It went a step too far when “Joker” was stenciled behind me, but I washed it off as part of a high school life that I’d soon forget for various reasons that was never questioned. I mean, it’s OK to forget something you didn’t want to remember anyway, right? Right, at least that’s what I keep telling myself each night as I shudder and shake my way to sleep…
It would be tough to say I slept my way through college, but if we’re talking about hair, which I believe was the point of this rant, then it would be kind to say that I was even sleeping.
Without the restrictive hand of God, I mean Mom, I can’t really remember cutting my hair at all. It went wild and wound up under a bandana for a long time. It’s funny, but the two biggest hairstyles of my time in Beantown were both brought about by Marva K.
At one point, I had cornrolls and when those grew out and I went back to the wrap, I was convinced to get dreadlocks. It looked like those on the right for a while before they dropped down and it was great. No worries about hair, just wake up, shake and go about your day.
That lasted for close to five years and got down to about shoulder lenght as I moved across the country and beyond. There’s a great picture that I love so much I have no idea where it is, and the main problem is evident in that photo. I’m a fan of staying clean and showers without a shower cap meant wet hair for what felt like hours.
In a bold move, I cut them off for a wedding, stayed too close to the open bar and crashed in a basement - not necessarily in that order although it could be. For a time, I worked as a policy service representative south of Ocala and didn’t see a barber for months with thoughts of locking them up again, but now I rock a Low Cut Ceasar and just hope to have muttonchops at some point in the near future…