Hair Wars 1968-1970

I have to bring up this subject because it was such a battleground for so long. That fight should not be forgotten. Not when millions of inches of hair lie wasted on barber floors. Particularly when some of that hair was mine. This battle continues in various other guises today.

When did the hair fight begin?

The hair fight began for me in high school. It was a classic tale of the little powerless guy against the regaining authority. Established power never likes to give an inch of it away, that move is always seen as "the erosion of order".
What adds to the mystery is the support of people that have only to gain. In other words, like today's world where Joe the uninsured will fight to the death against single-payer health care. Why? Because that's Socialism!!

But I digress.

Why did boys want to grow their hair? Probably the same reason I wanted to grow mine. It told you something about who I was (and who I wasn't), at a glance. Yes, it made a statement. The statement was: "I'm not about the status quo, I'm about this new thing".

I began to assume control of my hair at an early age, but just the act of combing it differently was met with Fascist-like hair enforcement at the hands of my parents. Their reasoning was "it looked ugly any way but combed straight back". The reaction to my wanting to change my look was always incredibly overdone.

In fairness, I want to point out that my long haired hippie-type friends were not all that open and accepting either. Well, my friends were, acquaintances, sometimes not so much.
For a while we would attend Sundays in Lincoln park. Some people called them love-ins, be-ins, or any of a number of hyphenated ins. Colorfully dressed artsy people and their dogs were there, with music, just hanging out (OK, there were a few drugs too).
I did notice once, after losing a battle with my parents (they got my hair cut...short), acceptance was not as forthcoming from some of the same folks who welcomed me the week before. I concluded the brotherly love of some members of the counter culture was considerably more shallow than I had hoped for.

Having an independent streak (a mile wide, some would say), caused the battle to rage on for years with my parents or whoever had something to say about it. (see Mr Psychic). It wasn't a problem at school; my high school, Prosser, got a load of new hip teachers to replace the Marine Corp drill sergeants that were there when I first started. They were just out of college and totally into The New Thing. I actually had support from them.

It's safe to say then that the Hair Thing, represented far more than a personal statement. This came to light one night when my father and I were exchanging angry words on the subject. At the height of it he called me a Communist! I will admit I didn't have a comeback for that (as it made no sense to me). Only later did I understand the level of knee-jerk reaction-isium was behind the flak many of us kids were taking. The Communist fear-mongering of the 50's never left many of my father's generation. Once, in a rare intimate talk, I shared with him that I had made a 5 year plan for my life. His reply was: "5 year plan? The Communists made 5 year plans!".

The friction between he and I came to a peek in 1970. It was my final year of high school. I had made up for the year I had cut (10th grade), by attending summer school, night school and carrying more classes during the regular year than was legal. I told you I had support of my teachers, they rocked!

The old man had come to check up on me after ignoring me and sending me no support money for 6 months. I believe he had a (General) MacArthur fantasy. Well, he was there to demonstrate who was in charge (of my life). This was after ME being my own boss for nearly half a year. I spoke to my budds, the teachers and asked them to put in a good word for me, then took him on a tour of my classes.
By the time that tour was over, he was still insisting I get my hair cut, but took me to a stylist so that though longer, my hair would look... well, styled.
It took a couple of days for him to figure out he'd been bamboozled.

I was reneging on my agreement to move to Texas with my family after graduation. I was moving out of Clifford Royce's house into my own 2 room tenement apartment. He caught me in the middle of the move. It was ugly. Let me explain: besides being my father, he was a large man, around 6'4" 280 lbs. He was a master at intimidation in all it's forms. I was 17 years old and defying him with everything I had.

He took one last turn cussing me, threatening me, invalidating me, and as I sat there taking it, I actually began to see red. I was so angry that I can honestly say had there been a weapon within any kind of reach, I would have killed him dead with it... twice over. That experience taught me something about murder and "a crime of passion". It is real.
It was the end of the Hair Wars, and the start of me having control and responsibility for my life. I knew if I was paying my own way, my parents could not (and would not) do anything about my choices. After that, I informed them of my life decisions, but never asked their opinions, certainly not their permission on any matter.

Fast-Forward 5 years: My parents are divorced, my father is a long haired pot smoking party boy.
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