For a time, everyone had long hair. Mine was at least to my waist. So was my oldest brother’s. My other brother did the fro thing as his puffed out as it grew. Short hair was unthinkable. Bizarre. Signaled your support for Nixon or suburban life or the establishment.
But then my boyfriend with the flowy hair showed up one summer day, completely shorn, buzz-style. And instead of bell bottoms and a fringed jacket, he wore skinny pants and high-top Converse. Appalled, I found myself pulling away although I sensed that my response meant something not so nice– about me.
[...] attached (and gloriously flowing (ie. long)) state: 1. Headbanging on a higher plane 2. Intrinsic symbol of temporal and social commitment to metal despite disapproval under accepted (and enforced) [...]