I was on a roll, writing this column, liking what I came up, and then …
Kind of like life before a certain virus decided to kick down everyone’s front door and remind us Mother Nature, and coronavirus, is still boss.
I hit something somewhere and it disappeared, which I didn’t realize because, even though I type fast, after decades of doing this, I still look at my stupid fingers when I type.
Then I couldn’t figure out how to go back to an earlier version–which I never figure out–and the stupid computer promised if I did this one thing, I could go back to an earlier version, which didn’t happen and I swear I heard the stupid computer cackle at me …
So … where was I? I honestly don’t know. How can someone be happy with finally thinking up something about which to write, only to completely forget about it five minutes later?
I blame the corona.
That’s me saving my stupid column again. Yes … really.
So, my point was … I think I was saying I feel kind of weird that my 2020 is kind of going pretty well, all things considered (pandemic, massive unemployment, not seeing loved ones, having no social life, having a persistent itch in the middle of my back I can no longer reach, etc.).
Now it’s really itching … stupid back.
But I am kind of serious. Because I can still string together sentences that may or may not make sense to anyone out there, yet someone still pays me to do so (in other jobs: there’s no money in music writing, so don’t even begin believing anything is THAT easy).
Because my past couple years were really no good–no, I won’t tell, because I barely know you–2020 is OK. And–now I remember what I was writing about–I just figured something out.
I was just conversing with a few ex-bandmates (right, here I go again). I talk to them because we’re bored and I figure I can still get away with writing for a music publication if I mention being in a band at least once a week.
We were all longhairs many years ago, except for one of us, and had to become presentable conformists at some point. One guy still works in the music business, where one can still use hair as a place to accessorize.
But it dawned on me: we can totally grow our hair back during the coronacrisis, without looking like pathetic midlife crisis candidates.
Instead, we’d just look like the pathetically ungroomed. Which–BINGO–is perfectly acceptable all of a sudden.
I cut mine right after turning 29. Yep; total stereotypical, cultural cave-in. I just got my first full-time writing job, started my first real adult relationship with someone who happened to have a child, and figured it somehow made sense. That has never been, nor shall ever be, a good reason to do anything.
But the hair was symbolic then and still is, in a different way. As in, I still have it and you don’t. So why not do something with it? Let your freak follicles fly. Though in urging my buddies to do the same, one reminded us he has nothing left to grow. Which left me feeling foolish after suggesting he bring back his 1985 perm.
Since the only thing more popular then self-obsession in America is self-obsession recorded for social media, I want to see pictures of hair again. There’s no reason not to. Shower, keep the bugs out, do what you have to … but grow some (hair). Take a selfie. You love doing that anyway. Then grow your hair for a month or three, and let’s see what you got. Be that guy in high school who always insisted he was growing his hair, like he had any say in the matter. The barber shops aren’t opening anytime soon, and amateur haircuts are only slightly less dangerous than relying on the White House for health tips. Show us what you got in a month. I dare you.
Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967 and tweet him your longhair photos to him. He might write a column about you!