the deliberate incident

It was like I had sold my soul to the Devil…

“The devil went down to the beauty salon, he was lookin’ for a soul to steal.   He was in a bind cos’ he’s way behind, he was willin’ to cut a deal… ” (sung to the tune: The Devil Went Down to Georgia by Charlie Daniels)

I’d turned my back on a whole generation…

“Went out ‘n’ cut my hair, happened earlier today… it was gettin’ kinda long, could have said it wasn’t my way.  So I did it, now I wonder why.  I feel like bein’ this meak ‘n’ fag lookin’  guy…” (sung to the tune: Almost Cut My Hair by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young)

and become this responsible adult…

“Get a haircut, you’ve got a real job.  Clean your act up, you look like a slob.  Get it together you’re older than God.  Get haircut, you’ve got a real job.”  ( sung to the tune: Get A Haircut by George Thorogood)

while losing my identity…

“Gimme a head without hair.  Short, buzz-cut hair!  Butchin’, clean ‘n’ crew-cut ‘n’ waxen.  See me without hair, where?  Over my ears with white walls, glare!  Gone, baby!  Smooth, mama!  See your reflection, daddy! Where?  Comb it, foam it!  Long as I’m chrome dome ‘n’ my hair!”  ( sung to the tune: Hair! from the American Tribal Love-Rock Musical)

Okay, okay.  You get the idea?  I got a hair-cut today.  And as I sat there looking at my reflection with the protrusion of my cranium becoming more apparent; these parodies of songs began taunting me, like I was giving in, selling out and becoming (ugh!) respectable.  I tried to recall how many times I have sat in a barber/stylist’s chair and second guessed my decision to lose my Samson like appearance and become a weak-kneed mortal…

“Snip, snip, snip, Delilah!  Clip, clip, clip, Delilah!  So before my curly blond locks hit the floor.  Forgive me Delilah, could you just remove a bit more?”  (sung to the tune: Delilah by Tom Jones)

Did you ever notice that when you have made the decision to let a part of your life be shaved off and you climb up into that chair suddenly everything looks in place and you begin second guessing yourself as to whether you really need a haircut?  I mean, I remember my very first hair-cut.  At least, I think it was my first.  I wondered where the ribbon of the barber’s pole went as it spiraled around.  I recall the kindly barber had to place a slat across the arms of his chair so I could sit up “big and tall” while he pumped the car jack to raise the seat as high as it would go.  Still I remember feeling really small as I looked into the mirror across the room with a parson’s collar tight  around my neck and a reversed Superman cape blanketing my knees down around my shoes.  I watched the terrified little guy that looked like me bawling his eyes out while his identity fell in fragmented clumps and mingled with the discards of countless other heads, all braver than me.   

“Make me feel at home, upon that barber’s chair.  Slap my back and run your burly fingers through my hair.  You know I’ll sure behave, if you ask me to.  But if I must be brave  I’ll walk right out on you.  Be gentle as a dove and take my advice.  Treat me nice.”  (sung to the tune: Treat Me Nice by Elvis Presley)

I also remember one time (back in the days of my flaming youth) I was walking past a barber shop as the gentle breeze filtered through my radiant adornment while the sun was shining warm and bright.  The proprietor beckoned to me with a kindly gesture, patting the seat of his chair like a used car salesman opening the door to a classy convertible.  I grinned broadly and respectfully declined, seeing my image reflected in the glass as I passed.  Freedom is allowing yourself to sprout… 

“Morning has broken, like the first morning.  My hair is growing, freely it’s spread.  Praise for the growing, praise for the morning.  Praise for it springing, fresh from my head.”  (sung to the tune: Morning Has Broken by Cat Stevens)

I’ve always preferred myself in longer hair ever since I saw the Beatles perform on The Ed Sullivan Show.  Like millions of other youngsters I stood in front of the mirror and pulled my hair down my forehead and said, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”  Longer hair meant being cool.  Longer hair meant freedom of expression.  Longer hair meant rebellion,  individualism and non-conformity.  Longer hair meant you no longer cared what other people thought and marched to the beat of your own drum.

“Whoa, whoa I should have realized alot of things before, if this hair ya gotta give me more.  Give me more. Hey, hey, hey!  Give me more!”  (sung to the tune, I Should Have Known Better by the Beatles)

So today I sat in the chair and a pretty girl named Dawn E. asked me how I wanted my hair to look.

“Like George Clooney.” I respond.  Not like George Harrison from the album, All Things Must Pass…?

“My sweet Lord, ooh my Lord.  I really want to know you, I really want to grow with you.  I really want to show you, Lord, that it won’t take long to grow my hair long.  Hallelujah.” (sung to the tune: My Sweet Lord by George Harrison)

“Really?”  she asks, “That short?”  I was relieved she didn’t laugh at the impossibility of making me look like George Clooney.

“How does it feel? Hey, how does it feel?  To be on your own? With no direction home.  A complete unknown.  Like a roamin’ comb?”  (sung to the tune: Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan)

“Yes.” I say with resignation as I look into the mirror, the drums are silent now…

“…and freedom, oh freedom.  Well that’s just some people talkin’.  Your hair-cut is stalkin’ you through this beauty shop throne.”  (sung to the tune: Desperado by the Eagles) 

 “We all have to grow up sometime.”  

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peace-love.

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