Almost Cut My Hair

Almost cut my hair

Happened just the other day

David Crosby - CSNY

     Not really.  It was actually 1972, and I had a chance to go from Mississippi to Anaheim California to Disneyland and play in the very first Disneyland All American College Band. They sent a list of pretty detailed instructions about things I needed to provide, like pants size, shirt size, jacket size, shoe size, plane ticket and what might possibly have been a deal breaker, a haircut. I was pretty busy being a semi-hippie rock god and in my spare time going to classes at Ole Miss and was more than a little concerned about the haircut and my vanity than I probably should have been. Reading a little further on the instruction sheet, I noticed we would have to join the musician’s union and would be paid $375 a week, and my concerns about a haircut vanished into the haze.

     I just didn’t have the strength of commitment my friend Billy had.  Rather than cut his hair for student teaching in 1973, he bought a short haired wig, tucked his shoulder length blonde locks up under it, and passed the dress code short hair inspection for more than 12 weeks as a student teacher in a local high school.  I always admired his dedication to his hair, his way of life and his creativity in solving what was, to many guys our age, a serious existential crisis if for no other reason than it involved us personally. I often let money get in the way of whatever thin veneer of beliefs I thought I had at 18 and discovered that being an anti-establishment semi-hippie was a lot easier when you had money.

     Like most guys my age, my first haircuts were at the barbershop where Daddy went, and were given at his direction, because “damn it, boy if I’m paying for it, you can bet it’s gonna be cut like I want it.” We did get to try out a flat top or two, but mostly it was the $1.50 special high and tight. This time, though, I went by alone and paid $3.50 for it myself and was very specific about how much he could cut (not much) and how short I wanted it (not very) and how long it would be in the back (pretty long). I proudly drove home to show the family my new cut and was met at the door by my brother Glen. “Hey, dude” he sneered from beneath his afro, “they might not let you back in your dorm with that cut.” I told him something under my breath, but he heard and “accidentally” bumped into me on his way out. Mama saw it next, and said “well, it’s shorter but I don’t think it quite meets the “short” requirement.” I didn’t argue with her but was confident I had gotten enough cut for California standards. Daddy came around the corner in his police uniform, headed out the door to start his shift, and gave me a glance as he passed by and said “what did you pay for that haircut?” I told him $3.50, and he looked at me again and “boy, you got took” and walked on toward the door.  I looked at his back and started to say “taken” but saw Mama shake her head silently and mouth “don’t do it” so I chose, at least on this occasion, discretion.

     I flew, new haircut and all, on a jet for the first time from Jackson MS International to LAX California and discovered that more had changed than just the time zone. I found my bag and saxophone, discovered it was too far to walk to the apartments the Disney guys had rented for us, had an unfortunate experience with a taxi driver that seemed to pass the same places 2 or 3 times before he found our apartment, had my very first burrito at a little taco stand where nobody seemed to understand Southern at all because I had to repeat everything at least three times. I also had a hard time understanding why they gave me whatever it was wrapped in an uncooked flour tortilla, but figured they probably just didn’t know how to fry stuff here.  My first day at Disneyland we all had a 4-day indoctrination course called The University of Disneyland. First, we filled out applications for the local musicians’ union, and then they lined us all up for haircuts, and didn’t ask our opinion about length or style. I was pretty impressed by the way the sequence of events prevented us from objecting and thought that might be something to remember for later on. I also thought that once again Fate found a way to reinforce the inevitable and what I already had found to be true again and again - Mama had been right.

     After 10 or 12 weeks of working as many as 6 hours a day with a mandatory 15-minute break every hour and a grueling 5 days a week playing music and experiencing Disneyland and Southern California in all its glory, I returned home broke and short haired to my rock and roll guys and the fall party season at Ole Miss. It took me a while to grow my hair back out, but I discovered it was possible to play music regardless of the length of your hair. It didn’t get cut again until I graduated, got hired and proceeded to become, in a surprisingly short period of time, “The Man” I had promised I would never sell out to in hundreds of dorm room discussions. How quickly I forgot my promises of eternal independence and peace and love when faced with the choice of being paid for working or remaining a supporter of flower power, paisley and incense and broke.  Money - and the lack of money - has a way of guiding you into channels you didn’t even know were there.

     Learning to be a real teacher took precedence over the length of my hair for many years until retirement, when I reached the realization that if I didn’t grow my silky locks out soon it wouldn't be long before the ability would move into the realm of “stuff I used to be able to do” land.  An unexpected opportunity presented itself a couple of months ago when my rock and roll guys from the 70’s were approached about playing for - irony of ironies - the guitar player’s 70th birthday. Now we had played together through the years many times for various events, but it was about the camaraderie and vintage music instead of the money. Calvin had had, in due course, his 50th and 60th birthday parties, we had 3 or 4 gigs for my high school reunions at the appropriate times, got to play for an Ole Miss party in Orlando and a couple of times in New Albany just because, so it wasn’t like we hadn’t kept in touch. The only difference was our ever-advancing age and the stories that grew from notable events into legendary status as they got older, and, of course, the degree and depth of our participation in each. You know how it was; the Boone’s Farm was sweeter and cheaper, the music was better, the girls were more beautiful, and the parties lasted for days. The classes were harder, the conversations were deeper and more meaningful, love was in the air and problems we didn’t yet know were all in front of us and not yet behind. The only thing stronger than our belief in the powers of love and peace was our conviction that we would never let ourselves become our parents. Seems as if our convictions failed to run as deep as we thought they did, and in the course of time we not only became our parents, but eventually our grandparents showed up in the ways we thought, looked, acted and felt.

     So anyway, I’m showing up in October for the gig with my hair pretty close to the length it was about 51 years ago and pre-Disney, and, while the length is satisfactory, the thickness in places is not, and it’s damn hard to arrange it in a way that covers those troublesome bare spots. I decided that if covering them meant I had to move my part down to the level of my left ear lobe and make it a far too obvious attempt to cover what is no longer there then, like the old guy with the more than obvious wig, maybe the results were worse than the problem it was intended to solve. My freak flag will be flying, but it’s a little frayed in some areas and some - OK, a lot - of the color seems to have faded to gray. Oh yeah, I’ll cut it sometime after we play because long hair is a lot more trouble than short hair, and I’m not as excited about hair care products as I once was, and I refuse to color anything that time and nature has gone to so much trouble to produce.

     Just for a short time, though, I’m saluting 1972 and all the things good and bad that I did or may have done, and remembering Steve and Lumpy and Bobby and Luigi and The Greek and all the guys that used to be with us and aren’t anymore. Peace and love and don’t bogart that scotch, my friend. Just for one last weekend we’ll all be back on the Blue Bus one more time riding to another party we will remember for as long as we can. You never know at this stage of life which party might be the last one we play for, so just in case it’s not the last let’s make it one we’ll want to talk about at the next one. Peace, love and memories.

If you would like to read about the adventures of Uncle Sam and the parties we played from 1970 - 1976 you can find the Kindle version for free and the latest print version with pictures on Amazon Amazon.com: Uncle Sam: My Secret Life as a Semi-Hippie Rock God eBook : Arnold, Jim: Kindle Store