Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be hair stylists...


Every generation of young guys does crazy-ass things with its hair.


The fifties invented pompadours, d.a.'s and flat-tops. The sixties gave us the Butch, the Beatle and a wild conglomeration of styles brilliantly described by the lyrics of the title song of Hair, The Musical:

"Let it fly in the breeze and get caught in the trees, Give a home to the fleas in my hair..."

In my lifetime alone we have buzzed our hair so short nothing remains but terrified roots broiling in helplessly bare scalp; we've gobbed it with Butch Wax and Dixie Peach Pomade -- sweet smelling petroleum-based mysteries with exactly the same consistency as axle grease; we went neat with Brylcreem ("A little dab'll do ya!") and after the Afros, the grunge bands and Alice Cooper had their way with us we were pretty much spent.

That desperation led us (briefly, thank you, Jesus!) to the mullet.

Now, here comes the twenty first century and it's all been done. I mean all of it, everything you or anybody else can imagine -- from spikes and mohawks to weird colors and intentionally butchered patches and guys who had barbers carve symbols and entire words into their cranial filaments...

...IT HAS ALL BEEN DONE.

So...what's next? Nothing.

Seriously, literally, absolutely nothing.


Just look at your American Idols.

If you're already a hair stylist I strongly suggest you go to school to learn tattoo removal.


© 2008 by David L. Williams, all rights reserved

* Hair, the Musical: Book and Lyrics by Gerome Ragni and James Rado, music by Galt MacDermot

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