When I was a kid, my hair was brown. During the school year, I kept my hair long. It was a thick mop that had a mind of its own, but it was still brown. On the last day of school before summer break, my dad typically took an electric razor (hair trimmer) and shaved my head leaving about 1/4 inch. I guess he didn't want to have to worry about taking me to the barber over the break. It became known as my summer look.
In high school, I began wearing my hair spiked. Not all the time, but occasionally I would either use hair wax, gel, or mousse to get the middle part to stand on its end. It was sort of a flat-top look, but longer. When I was a senior, my brother, Darrell, married a hairdresser from Stilton, England. Jenny was right out of the punk-rock look handbook. She wore her blond hair short, too much eye make-up and blush, and kept her nails polished with crazy colors.
Jenny got me to agree to letting her bleach the middle of my head--the spiky hair--platinum blond. I thought it was a cool idea until the chemicals she used burned the crap out of my scalp. I mean, I was literally in excruciating pain during the process. I had wished I had access to a time machine to go back before I agreed to what fast became a bad idea.
After the solution was washed out, and my scalp began to settle down, I decided that my new look was cool. Never mind that I looked somewhat like a skunk. I wanted to show everyone the hip new me.
I remember driving down the street later that day, innocently on my way home. I remember looking to my right and seeing my father driving in the car next to mine. I remember watching him, in horror and amusement, as he rolled down his window and began yelling it me, shaking his fists in my direction, declaring that he was going to beat the shit out of me when I got home. I was an embarrassment, he shouted, an utter embarrassment. I slowed down so we wouldn't be driving next to each other anymore. I let him beat me home by at least a half hour. I figured that would give him time to calm down.
When I got home, he was even more angry. He yelled at me, he yelled at my brother, he yelled at my mother, and he snipped at Jen. There was no settling him down. He insisted that Jen either change my hair back to the way it was, or he was going to get the clippers and shave my head bald.
At that point, I didn't care either way. My scalp already began forming scabs from the first, second, or third degree burns that Jen subjected me to. I just wanted my head back to normal, pain free and uninteresting. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. Since the damage was done, I had to let my scalp heal. The only way to let it heal was to let it grow out, to my dad's dissatisfaction.
No pictures exist from when my hair was like that. I kind of wish there were photos so I could really remember what it looked like, rather than trying to recall it from memory.
The only thing that is for sure is my hair is no longer brown. I keep it short to hide the gray. 1/4 inch, just like the summers of my youth. Each day seems like less and less of the original stuff is there and more and more gray has taken over the territory on my head. The good guys have lost the brave battle. Age has won the land. Age has gained the right to rule and do it swiftly and as it seems fit.
I wonder if my head will be full gray by my next birthday. Probably.
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