I Was A Teen-Aged Hair-Don't

Lots of us can attest to having had poor judgment as teenagers. One in a series of misbegotten decisions I made between the ages of roughly fourteen and nineteen involved the travesty of attempting white-girl dreadlocks.

Now don't misunderstand. I was by no means a hippie. There was a fleeting moment between middle- and high school when it was touch and go . . . I really liked those jangly bell anklets that the hippie girls wore and I once went to a Grateful Dead concert -- albeit just the parking lot, where all manner of vendor sold yummy veggie pitas, tie-dyed t-shirts and nitrous balloons. But at some point or other, I came to a fork in the road: Would it be pot and Phish or whiskey and mosh pits? At the urging of my bestest friend Sarah, who was already sporting spiked dog collars and heavy black eyeliner and obsessing over Crass b-sides -- despite the fact that she lived in the biggest mansion on the East side -- I chose the latter.

For me, as for most kids who did not actually grow up on the streets of London or New York in the late Seventies, "being punk" was merely a sartorial exercise, much as we professed to believe in anarchy and, like, veganism and not bathing. And so it was that Sarah and I began to experiment with all of the various and sundry punk styles we could think up. Manic Panic hair dye was used liberally. Accessorizing with safety pins became de rigeur. Wearing owl-like eye makeup was non-negotiable. We were very pleased with ourselves. Our parents not so much.

I can't recall exactly when I discovered that the dreadlocks that the pretty, earthy hippie girls at school rocked functioned doubly as an acceptable punk hairstyle, but I think I came to the realization with equal parts surprise and relief. Up to then, I'd resigned myself to being the most white-bread punk rock acolyte of our little social circle. Sarah shaved her head, Joe got a tattoo, J.R. had a mohawk, held in place with Crest toothpaste. I told myself I was content to represent the more sedate end of the style spectrum, but in truth I was scared I'd end up looking like an idiot, or worse, a poseur.

But dreadlocks. That I could manage. A few weeks into my sophomore year I floated the idea to Sarah, who was enthusiastic. I quickly set about researching ways to give myself the desired look, and was told by more than one stanky punk with whom I associated that dreadlocks required a long-term sabbatical from hair-washing. I was not down with that.

Luckily I had other resources. After surveying every one of the black girls in my geometry class, I found that dreadlocks could be achieved simply with the application of a mysterious and magical beauty product known as Murray's Bee's Wax. Joy!

That very weekend, Sarah and I hit up Sally's Beauty Supply, procured the Murray's and got to work in Sarah's bathroom.

I must remind you that these were the days before Google. We could not simply enter search terms and get a detailed how-to on dreadlocks. We also didn't have the presence of mind to ask for instructions on how to create them, beyond merely attaining and applying the Murray's. So we improvised. We began slathering the balm onto medium sections of my hair and twisting them into coils. After getting through about half of my head, we noticed that the effect was not quite what we were after. The hair was too smooth, not nappy or ratty enough: it looked more like a series of cornrows than the artfully mussed locks I dreamed about. We tried in vain to tease them into fuzzy ropes, to no avail. We determined that we'd used too much product and not enough elbow grease to physically rough up the hair, so I set about washing out the Murray's, optimistic that we could start over and get it right the second time.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Murray's Bee's Wax, the "bee's wax" is a bit of a misnomer. The shit is essentially dressed-up Vaseline. You see where this is going. I washed and dried my hair, and quickly discovered that it had almost no effect. Every strand was essentially coated in petroleum jelly, rendering the water and the suds completely innocuous. Moisture began to bead on my head as on a duck's feathers. I shampooed again. Nothing. Again. And again. And again.

Oh. Fuck.

I came to the grim realization that I had completely screwed up my hair with a sense of humor undercut by the terrifiying knowledge that I'd be forced to go to school the next day with hair so slicked in grease that I resembled an animal dredged up after the Exxon-Valdez oil spill. I trudged home from Sarah's and ransacked the utility closet at my house for any cleaning product I thought I could safely use on my head, hell-bent on finding something -- anything -- that would at the very least make my hair marginally less disgusting.

No fucking dice. Monday rolled around and I tried foolishly to camouflage my hair's unfortunate condition. I pulled it back in a loose pony tail and hoped people would simply think it was still wet from the shower. I divulged to my friends the truth of what happened, and spent the week attempting a low profile in the hallways, rushing home as soon as the 3 o'clock bell rang to begin the hours-long process of washing, drying and rewashing my pathetic strands.

Halfway through the week, fate reared its comparatively ugly head: As I was walking home from school, a red Honda Prelude pulled up beside me, and Anthony Panzica leaned across the driver's seat and yelled "Want a ride?"

Dear god why? Why now? Why must the hottest guy in the junior class, whom I'd ogled from afar , notice me and offer me a ride home on a day when I looked like a drowned rat?

"Sure, thanks."

The half-mile drive was painfully silent. I considered telling him the whole sad story of my hair, to at the very least offer an explanation for my freakish 'do. But I couldn't get up the nerve. As he sped away from my driveway, I shook my fist and cursed the heavens Scarlett O'Hara style.

And so the week wore on. My parents laughed and shook their heads. I laid my oily head on my towel-protected pillow at night and winced, replaying every humiliating encounter I'd suffered that day.

After a full week with no demonstrable change in my hair's condition, it dawned on me that perhaps I should get some professional help. I consulted the wretched Murray's Bee's Wax label and found a 1-800 customer service number. Why hadn't I sought their help earlier? Because I was retarded, that's why.

The first thing the Murray's rep said to me after I 'd described the issue was, "Are you Caucasian?" I shit you not. It was at that point that I finally realized the error of my ways: I was not black! My hair was not the texture of a black person's! Yes. I am a master of the obvious.

The lady chuckled to herself and laid out the steps whereby I could begin the process of getting my hair back to its natural state.* I hung up and got to work immediately. Within an hour, my hair was all but normal.

In the twelve-odd years since I experienced this hair fiasco, I have approached each haircut and color and style with trepidation. I admire the people who embrace follicular experiments without fear. But outlandish hairstyles simply ain't for me. I learned that the hard way.

*In the unlikely even that you find yourself in my position, you must literally melt the Murray's off your hair, using a hair-dryer and a comb to methodically diffuse the grease. Don't say I never warned you.