It was the 1980s, and I was approaching my teenage years when I’d reach optimal wisdom and maturity. I liked the rock music, and like many a male youth under the influence of Satan’s tongue, I wanted long, rockstar hair. A friend of mine cautioned me against it, claiming that it was a sin for men to have long hair. The exception was Jesus Christ. I was told Jesus got a pass because he lacked the proper tools.
Now, I realize there were likely no Super Cuts locations in Capernaum, so haircuts weren’t convenient. However, I’ve seen Christ’s resume. If he could walk on water, bring Lazarus back to life, and feed thousands with a single fish and a loaf of Sunbeam Giant, I would think giving himself a fresh coif would be categorized as light work.
I faced two major obstacles in pursuit of my lofty crinal goals. First, I wasn’t a rock star. Second, I had parents who paid for my haircuts (and most everything else) and had weighted votes when it came to my fashion choices. Fortunately, my father had been through the same thing. He’d grown up in the 1960s and battled his father over hair length–among other things. He was sympathetic to my plight. Being the cool dad, he permitted me to grow my hair out under two conditions. First, I kept it clean and brushed. This would not be an issue, I assured him.
I had my pump bottle of LaMaur Apple Pectin shampoo, which not only kept my dirty blond hair shiny, but also left it smelling like an orchard–or Strawberry Shortcake’s sister, Apple Dumplin.’ I also owned a red Goody 8” flare-style brush. It had special Comfor-tip bristles, and without the discomfort of regular bristles, I brushed my hair like it was a brood mare’s tail. And oh yes, I did just reference Joni Mitchell.
The second condition for wearing my hair long was that I keep it off my ears. This seemed like a fair demand, and I was glad to take the deal. Little did I know that my dad had provided the schematic for what would come to be known as the mullet, the most disparaged hairstyle in the history of mankind.
In those days, a mullet was a fish. One that looked nothing like a young man. There were no nicknames, business in the front, party in the back, Missouri Compromise. Simply stylish. It was long hair without appearing unkempt. At least that’s what we told ourselves.
Of course, long hair is an exercise in delayed satisfaction, but I was on my way, constantly tilting my head back to see if my hair would reach my collar. It would take a change of venue for my new hairstyle to take full flight.
I had always gotten my hair cut by the town barber. Most males in our town did. He probably had a 70% market share. Competent, but nothing fancy. Customers got cuts, not styles. No shampooing or blow drying. If you look at my elementary school yearbook photos, you will see me with the same boring haircut in all of them.
It was a one-man operation. The proprietor might close for an afternoon to go fishing. Men from town would stop in to shoot the shit. A guitar was kept in the back, and a collection of George Jones cassettes was stacked next to a portable radio/tape player. George Jones also had an affinity for bad haircuts.
My mother got her hair done in the next town over, which was not as small. Her stylist was a homosexual male, something I’d only heard about. It was quite the novelty at that time in that place. I was never allowed to go with her.
As I mentioned in a previous tale, after we moved, I got my haircut at a flashy salon inside Greenspoint Mall in north Houston. When I say flashy, I mean loud and tacky. The stylists wore uniforms consisting of loose trousers and tight vests. The staff looked like the Go-Go’s in a remake of Harum Scarum. My stylist looked like Belinda Carlisle might if she jammed a steak knife into an electrical outlet. As such, I’ll refer to her as Carli.
Carli’s hairstyle was an engineering marvel, a modern art sculpture of follicle annealment that had to have been highly flammable given the amount of hairspray it required. The same dirty blond as mine, it extended from her scalp and wrapped around diagonally like a stranded helter skelter. I could only imagine how early she had to get up in the morning to style it.
Though I was only twelve years old, I was convinced I’d found my future wife. She had everything I wanted. She was female, talked to me, and was educated in the discipline of rock and roll. Every month or so, we’d have forty-five minutes of meaningful conversation. She remembered my name. We talked of music and life. She was my confidant. She always appeared happy to see me and came across as though she genuinely liked me. My mother was also a generous tipper.
I was young and stupid, and hormonal winds propelled my quixotic sails. I was nonetheless mature enough to understand the peril of my situation and the steep odds I faced. Carli was an older woman. Woman being the operative term. I was three years from driving..
It was a tough situation that I privately cherished. Though never in optimal health, my dream was alive, and I harbored it, hoping one day it would come to fruition. It was difficult, but I kept it all to myself. Carli also cut my dad’s hair. If I mentioned any sort of attraction, he’d be quick to tell her, complete with embellishment that I’d never be able to live down. Though I was in love–or something vaguely resembling it, I wasn’t ready to make a public profession. And I didn’t want to put her on the spot. Faced with this information, she’d be compelled to respond. I wasn’t ready for that either way.
My mother would typically be more understanding, but I overheard her talking to a friend on the phone. I was able to surmise they were discussing our afternoon outing to the mall and the haircut I’d received during said outing.
“Oh dear, she looked even worse than before,” said my mother, who never said anything bad about anybody. Her words were thoughtless, callous, hurtful. I was crushed. My mother’s approval meant everything to me. She just didn’t know Carli like I did. She was also far more pragmatic than I was at that time. I clung to a fantasy, denying the pellucid reality.
As luck would have it, we moved the following autumn. Not only was my apple cart upset, my life was ruined. My mother did everything she could to ease the transition, though driving eight hours each way to get my haircut was not reasonable.
I got my hair cut one last time before moving. I had to break the news to Carli that it was over. I’d hoped she’d object, begging through tears for me to find a way to stay.
“Bummer,” she said.
So brave, so strong, this one, I thought.
It was well short of the teary response I’d hoped to receive, and reality finally began to settle in. I was one of many rock and roll wannabes whose hair this woman cut. I’m sure she regaled them with the same tales and came across as just as interested in their stories and problems. It’s called customer service. As she pulled the cape off of me for the last time, she wished me the best with my move and new school. Walking out, I turned my head for a final look. She caught my glance and smiled. I never saw her again.
* * * *
My hair had been long for more than three years when I first seriously considered cutting it. I was playing basketball daily and had grown weary of having a sweat-soaked lock of hair slap me in the face every time I spun my head. This was a big decision. I recalled the story of Samson and that conniving bitch, Delilah.
One evening, I instructed my new stylist to cut it off. It just wasn’t functional. It was weird initially, but far easier to maintain.
The next day, as we filed out of science class, a member of the dance squad stopped me.
“I like your hair, Steve,” she said with a smile.
Take that, Samson. Unlike that gullible sissy, I still had game.
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