Never out of style

The chair was made of metal and tubular in shape and had a footrest and a seat of padded yellow plastic. It seemed to appear only at haircut time, leastwise I've no memory of it being put to any other use. My father would sit me down upon that chair and drape a protective bib around my front which acted as a slide if you will for clipped-off hair to slip down to the floor. As my father went about giving me a crewcut the air would be sweetened by the aroma of his pipe that was redolent with aged tobacco and its hints of burnt sugar and butterscotch. Bob Steele a local AM disc jockey would be emanating from a nearby green plastic portable radio. He had a sonorous voice and spoke between songs of interesting facts and proper word usage. He also hawked P.O.M.G., peace of mind guaranteed, the tag line of a Hartford jeweler and sponsor of his show, which, when Bob Steele wasn't speaking, consisted of big band tunes and the standards as sung by such stalwarts as Tony Bennett, Johnny Mathis, and my father's favorite, Frank Sinatra. You could listen to Bob Steele's show and remain blissfully unaware of the turbulence of the sixties then raging nationwide. My father was quite the fan.

When I entered first grade in 1963, I stood out in class for I was dressed in the fashions of a decade passed and unlike my classmates I had my hair shorn to military specification. I'd come home from school in tears after a day of being ostracized and teased. Please, I implored in tears. Let me grow my hair and dress like the other kids. But my father wouldn't have it. Not in his household he said. And his word was law and the law did not bend for several years to come.

Finally however after much pleading by my mother in the summer leading up to the sixth grade in 1969, my father acquiesced and took me shopping to buy a pair of bell-bottoms the current fashion of pants, one that my father had earlier damned as worn only by assholes. I can still remember that day of shopping and the thrill of searching through the stacks of bell-bottoms for just the right pair. And I found them. They were brown and white striped and had a very wide bell. I also bought a cool shirt and a wide belt to go along with them. I was from then on with my father's tacit silence and outlay of cash dressed in the fashions of the day.

My hair grew longer and unruly and I kept it I parted on the side. At night I would wedge the right side of my head into my pillow and try to will myself into not moving in an effort to keep my hair flat against my head. Invariably however I tossed and turned and my hairstyle suffered. But I refrained as much as was possible from visiting a barber much to my father's chagrin. By the time I reached high school I'd firmly taken my place among those who were labeled as freaks.

One Saturday afternoon during my Senior year in high school in 1976, I went shopping for clothes while incredibly stoned. I picked out a pair of pants that were baby blue crushed velvet with elephantine legs and front pockets I could barely get my thumbs in. They were 36 inches in length; I wore 33" by 33" in pants so I had to have my mother take up the hem. When I modeled them for her she said, "Oh. I see." The following day when I was no longer stoned I thought what have I done? But I shook off my uncertainty and wore them that Monday to school. At one point that day I stepped into the bathroom to take a whiz. There were around ten guys in the bathroom and all talking between them ceased as I stepped up to the urinal and did my thing. No one spoke the entire time. Then as I flushed and was done and just about out the door they all burst out in uproarious laughter. I never wore the pants again.

That summer I cut my hair shorter and began to comb it straight back. I'd been led to do so by hanging out at a local disco. For it did not take me long to assess by way of the club's other patrons that long hair as I wore it was no longer in style. And I wanted to fit in. So my daily garb changed too. No longer did I wear denim and construction boots. Instead I wore platform shoes and flashier clothes of unnatural fibers and polyester. My new outfits were diametrically different from the dull and muted colors I had up until that point worn. My parents who returned from a two week vacation unaware of my transformation had to ask whose clothes was I wearing. When I told them mine they were stupefied.

In the 80's I swore off man made fabrics cut my hair shorter and had a rat tail in back some seven inches long. It was all the rage. My clothes were mostly thrift store bought. One garment I owned was a suit-coat on which I scrawled on the back across the shoulders with a black magic-marker, "All dressed up." I also wore a lot of T shirts promoting bands I'd an affinity for such as The Pretenders, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, and the band that I was in, Cargo of Despair. At one point during those years I gave my self a haircut. I butchered the job and had to resort to a barber to remedy the mess I'd made. To the barber's inquiries of how my hair had gotten into such a state I told him my girlfriend had cut it. "What," he said, appraising my work. "Did you have a fight with her beforehand?"

Over the proceeding two decades the length of my hair would vary. I would go through spells of wearing it high and tight a.l.a the military when I felt a need to get serious in life. Other times I'd let my hair grow out until you could call it a mane. I had flat tops and buzz cuts too. Overall however my hair style was mostly short and neat. It remains so to this day albeit my hair is now gray. I've also gone back to wearing denim pants and somewhat muted shirts. It's the way I dress most every day. It seems to me at least to never be out of style.