In the mirror my hair is reminding me of the way I was wearing it in the 70's
I am very surprised by this. Your haircolour came back?
Fun fact: My hair hasn't been cut since August 2018.
Back to thread topic.
Ouch!!
I began as a very light blond and began graying in my early 20's. Depending on the light I'd be seen as either gray or blond until well into my 50's - after that there were no doubts, I was gray.
I've never suffered the indignity of a bald, or even a thin patch, so when barbering became far too intimate, the length of my hair, which I've always worn longish, quickly grew (intended) to resemble the hair on the skinny kid whose likeness stares back from dog eared photos in aged albums that still exude a vaguely weedy odor.
When very long hair was a very new thing in Southern California I had two jobs that required very different hair styles.
By day I was a hard working, hard drinking, short haired truck driver that inhaled bennies until his eyes quivered. The transformation would begin early Friday evening, and by midnight I'd have become a very long haired commie pinko hippie that would shuck and jive in a psychedelically fueled patois as I strode to my weekend gig as a light show impresario. - no one allowed on the light stand without at least one full hit of Purple Owsley. Owsley himself showed up on one memorable occasion.
My partner at the time affected the name of "Creepin Jesus" principally because of his naturally grown locks. We spotted a pair of likely looking cowgirls as we sauntered towards the wrong side of town & allowed them to buy us a beer at the Dew Drop Inn, a local beer and blood emporium favored by cowboys sans horses.
There was a bar down the block for bikers without bikes, it was that kind of neighborhood.
We were diverted by the cowgirls lecherous attentions and didn't notice when their husbands stumbled through the back door.
They were outraged that hippies had defiled their watering hole. They were outraged that their wives were drinking with long haired sissies. They were outraged because it was Friday night at the Dew Drop Inn and they always got outraged on Friday night at the Dew Drop Inn.
One grabbed Creepin Jesus by the shirt and prepared to smack him with the long neck bottle of coors conveniently cupped in his other hand. His partner in outrage, and my immediate nemesis made a successful grab for my luxuriant locks, and as I ducked the world suddenly stopped rotating.
My blustering, beer besotted assailant suddenly faced a gangly short haired kid with pink curlers crossing his close cropped pate. The hank of lifeless hair hanging from his right hand was hard to dislodge though he shook it vigorously. His jaw swung open, closed momentarily then dropped again just before an unseen right cross closed it at a strange angle.
His partner had been so distracted that, though he still held Creepin' J's shirt, he'd dropped his weapon and stood transfixed awaiting CJ's righteous response.
Well the barkeep mopped up the little blood that had leaked to the floor and returned my girlfriend's "fall". The cowgirls dabbed at their fallen hero's faces and swore they'd never again take up with dirty, faggy, drug addicted, commie pinko hippies.
Creepin Jesus and I left during the confusion and shuffled across town to Larry's Den of Iniquity, the site of the weekend's festivities. CJ was still trying to master his newly acquired platform shoes and I was preening in the wildest, widest bell bottoms I'd ever seen.
I still wonder what stories the cowboys tell of the night they inadvertently scalped a hippy.
Terry