Hair Wars

 

I frequently see articles about the rapid cultural changes of the 1960's. I think growing up in Topanga Canyon during that decade, it did not often seem as radical as in society as a whole. Topanga has historically been a radical community. Many iconic artists from Woody Guthrie and on into the Rock of the early 70’s lived and played in the area at different times. From communists to beatniks, from visual and performing artists, to just unique eccentrics and independent thinkers, our neighbors were always a mixed bag. Adding “hippies” into the mix just added more small shops and art to the main road twisting height he center of it all. 

And my brother, Sam, was there for it. He turned 16 at the end of 1965. He dressed in tight, black jeans and mostly black shirts, from tees and turtlenecks, to a few flowing silky dress up shirts. He played guitar and painted. He had freedom to drive around to parties at different hangouts in the canyon, or just walk up the hill next door to Phil Twitchell’s house, which seemed to be a revolving mini commune of various artistic free spirits. 

But while our community embraced the evolving culture, our dad was not so open to it. It was compounded by the fact that on school vacation days, he was paying Sam to work with him in his construction business. He found my brother’s preferred style choices to be an unacceptable image for working with his higher end clients. 

On top of that, there was the bigger dividing line of the cultural shift. Hair! My brother wanted to let his hair grow, and my dad was having none of it. 

One memorable night my dad is determined to cut Sam’s hair to be “respectable.” My mom and I are sitting in our accustomed places in the living room as the argument begins. I feel frozen in place. My dad is using a joking tone, but his words are escalating into threats. Sam is smiling and making jokes, but he is not backing down. He is old enough to let his hair grow if he wants to. 

My dad pulls a chair from the kitchen in front of the fireplace. He sets out a comb, and hair scissors on the mantle. He pulls out the clippers and starts to plug them in. 

Sam yells “No!” And thunders through the kitchen and out the back door. My dad, clippers still in hand, heads after him. I can hear Sam bumping the wall as he heads around to the front of the house. And amazingly, my dad isn’t far behind. 

I go to the window to see my brother reaching the bottom of the front stairs as my dad reaches the top waving the clippers. “You can’t get away from me. 

I watch Sam run down the driveway between the two rows of cars. As he reaches the road, enclosed by the dark night, my dad is just leaving the bottom of the stairs and is still hot on his heels, but visibly slowing. Sam circles around and squeezes between the cars and the hillside, heading back towards the steps. 

I can just make out dad, bent for a minute with his hands on his knees at the edge of the road. As he turns and starts walking back, Sam’s feet thunder up onto the front porch. I’m startled as his face suddenly stares in through the window where I’m watching. 

He shouts, right into my face, “Where’s the hairy head hunter!” My mom and I can’t help but break out into laughter. We were just as quickly silenced by my dad’s angry red face. 

Of course, my dad wins. My dad always wins. He is still breathing hard, but Sam is in the chair, draped in an old sheet, and his ears and neck are being suitably exposed to the world. 

The next day my dad takes Sam to buy a “good pair of slacks and a decent shirt.” I even have photographic proof of the outfit, worn while working with my dad in a client's home. If he wore it more than three times, I don’t remember it. 

A couple of years later, Sam was declared grown and moved out. I got to have his bedroom, with the advantage of being upstairs right across from the bathroom. When I opened the closet to start hanging my clothes, I found it wasn’t empty. There they were, still neatly pressed, his light gray slacks and light blue sports shirt. 

As culture wars have continued to rage on, this skirmish always replays in my memory. Pick your battles. It’s only hair.