Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
-“Hair” from the hippie rock musical Hair
My martial arts teacher and boss, who has known me for close to twenty years and first met me as I rollerbladed into his school with a black and white Rasta hat that made me look a little like a train engineer containing a long mane underneath, left his students mid-class to come into the dressing room and check out my new non-do—and laugh; I’m not sure if that was a positive vote or not. Reviewing past laugh abuse, such as when I pissed my pants in third grade, or when I asked the pretty girl out in high school in front of her friends, I came to the conclusion that he was being a dick.
At USAZT, a gym where I have a personal training client, the bitchy daughter of the owners actually acknowledged me for the first time in about three years of my working there, probably for the reason that she didn’t recognize me as one of the people on her “Do Not Acknowledge” bitch list. I would think someone that butt ugly would be hyper-nice to overcompensate for her dog’s ass looks but somehow she must have missed that memo.
There was the terror I experienced each time I walked into my bathroom and saw this strange Neo-Nazi looking back at me but I soon converted this to a homoerotic fantasy. “Oh, hello Fritz. Had I known you were coming I might have put on pants. Then again…I might have not.”
The other adjustment came with the fact that shaking my head, either after a shower or head-banging at Studio 54, resulted in no sensation of swinging hair, something I enjoyed almost as much as a Tom Collins in a frosty glass on a hot summer day on my porch. I never fully adapted to this so instead became a Tom Collins alcoholic.
While I found the low-maintenance convenience of my non-do awesome, not needing to wash and condition my hair in the shower, followed by rolling in all those pink plastic curlers afterwards and sitting under a hairdryer for the next hour and half and a plastic shower cap, the most important aspect of my hairgone for me was that I was brave enough to enter the Unknown and was surprised how easy it was to drop my identity with my long hair. It was like gonorrhea: the moment it was gone I didn’t think, “Oh, if only I could have it for one more day!” It reinforced for me that Who I Am is beyond all characteristics and doings and resides more in the “I Am” than the “Who.”
And only recently I went through the last of the Five Stages of Grief regarding no longer getting stopped at the airport by the TSA perverts for a “random” anal raping:
(1) Sad at feeling no longer attractive
(2) Anger for their lack of attention
(3) Buying presents and flowers for the agents in the hope of rekindling the spark
(4) Begging and crying
(5) Inserting various explosive devices up your rectum
All of this gave me much greater clarity not only to Who I Am but also of the meaning of the phrase, “Blow it out your ass.”