Flying My Freak Flag

by Jay Kerner

I’ve always been fascinated by my fellow humans and their relationship with their hair. Nobody much likes it as it comes. We cut it, we curl it, we style it, we dye it, and we weave it. We sculpt it and glue it in place. When it falls out, we spend untold fortunes to replace it, fake it, or grow it back. Others throw the baby out with their hairy bathwater and shave their heads.

As a kid in the ‘60s, I had a buzz cut. Not that different from shearing sheep. Didn’t like it much. Didn’t fit with the way I saw myself. I wanted to be a Beatle. Later, I wanted to be one of Paul Revere’s Raiders (the hair, not the puffy shirts). As a teenager, I tried to let it grow out, but a hard-ass stepfather was always on me. Finally, right before my senior year of high school, my mom rolled it up in a really tight perm. That’s how I became the first guy I knew with a white-boy afro.

It was massive. Shoulder width. Kept it poofed up with my Black Power Fist Afro Pik. I was a trend-setter. Chicks dug it. But before long, they were everywhere. When Mike Brady came home to the Bunch with one, I buzzed mine off. After high school, I wasted a good portion of my peak hair-growing years wearing (and being) a suit. I’d get the businessman special haircut every few weeks.

After a couple of decades, I put the suits away and started dressing more like me. That part has stayed the same for a long time now. But the hair… well… I just can’t make up my mind. It’s thinning and graying, but I’m neither a comb-over guy nor a Just for Men guy. So, just as sort of a personal experiment, I thought I’d let it go for a while. No target in mind. No mental picture I’m trying to emulate. Just quit doing battle with it and let it do what it wants. I keep it clean and conditioned, but other than that, it’s a follicle-free-for-all.

It might sound simple, but it’s not. We’ve all brainwashed ourselves with rituals and routines. Make any changes, and the world feels obligated to comment on it. You have to stay strong. People have their own mental pictures of you and don’t like it when you stray from their expectations. It’s probably been a couple of years now since my last haircut. The first few months are the worst. It’s always going to look crappy, and everyone in your circle is going to tell you about it.

Then, one fine day in your hair-growing journey, you’ll reach back with your tiny rubber band and discover that you can finally pull it back in a ponytail. A sad, pitiful little ponytail, but a ponytail all the same, damn it! All of a sudden, you have options. I wear mine up most of the time these days, but I let it fly some, too. I know it looks ridiculous, but I wonder if freeing myself from thoughts about my hair leaves room for other ideas.

A lot of interesting folks down through the ages have had crazy-ass hair. Do you think Mrs. Einstein was all, “Albert! You look like a bum! Get a haircut, why don’t ya?” Would Huck Finn have sprung from Mark Twain’s brain under a flat-top? Maybe, but I bet not! Lyle Lovett’s crazy hair didn’t stop him from landing the “Pretty Woman.” He didn’t keep her long, but credit where it’s due!

Maybe it’s a cosmic antenna, and you don’t pick up all the signal until your aerial is long enough. All I know is when I look in the mirror, I sort of recognize the old hippy looking back. But I could also wake up tomorrow and whack it all off. You never know. I’m like that.