I once had waist length hair. Along with it, sacks of cheap colourful hair bands that broke only at inconvenient moments and got misplaced at an alarming rate. This was of course a long long time ago on a continent far far away. During that wide eyed bout of naivety on the anvil called undergraduate life. Before the hammer first blows of reality made me marginally less dim.
My mother was appalled. “People will think he is a band master” is one of her more memorable grumbles to my father. On visits to the island I would tuck my ponytail under my shirt collar. At weddings no one seemed to notice. My father was tolerant if not supportive. He made a mission to ensure that I managed my hair properly and helpfully sent regular supplies of coconut oil. These froze to bricks in winter weather.
After 3 years of long hair I walked into a barber shop and asked for all the long hair to be chopped off. I didn’t want it in a bag. I walked out a freed slave and never looked back at my “tresses” being swept off the floor. A good thing because many years later the Mrs told me that she found men with long hair repulsive (there is a facial expression she makes when long haired men are discussed that is impossible to describe). She refuses to look at pictures from my long haired days.
Why such a change of heart from long to short hair? That’s in the next post.