"Somebody should spread the ^
word about the James Carman |
Band, 'those Dangerous Gentle- ■
mens.' The quartet plays a barn- j
storming brand of blues that has I
to be seen to be believed.”
—Billboard ■
From Los Angeles, CA
JAMES HARMAN !
BAND
Wed.-Sat., Oct. 7-10
| BRING THIS AD AND GET % OFF TONIGHT'S COVER
[_.!HEjnpMR,36BNoi4:__j
QUITING BUSINESS SALE
GINNY’S CANDY JAR
(Downtown store only)
EVERYTHING
Vi PRICE
North 13th, Next to Stuart Theater
University
of Nebraska
Ski Club
Plan Your Ski Trip NOW
at Jackson Hole or Steamboat
The University of Nebraska Ski
Club is sponsoring ski trips
to Jackson Hole or Steamboat.
They’re having a meeting to
night, Wednesday, October 7, at
7:30 pm. So attend the meeting
to plan your ski trip and get
ready for a ski blitz.
I Check the daily events calendar
for room location
Hair discrimination returns;
It’s 1967 at the barber’s
I go to a party. It’s pseudo-yuppies
— hairdressers, actually, and lots of
them — but there’s enough free alco
hol of the hard, expensive variety that
I stay. The music isn’t bad so I don’t
mind being completely ignored. And
there is a nice terraced condo back
yard, two levels and a balcony, a fire
place, private stuff to get into, maga
zines about hairstyles that actually
seem to have political slants. There
are the conservative magazines that
still advocate the uniform haircut.
“Used to be you could go into any
'barber’ in the nation and say,'gimme
a haircut’ an’ he’d know what you
meant,” that sort of thing.
Then there were the Rolling Stone/
Spin kind of hair magazines: tinting,
mousse, moving escalators up hair
spray-hard blocks of hair, hair terrari
ums with little bonsai trees growing
out of them...
In between were those crafty
moderates, trying to iive in both
worlds. In Lincoln, moderation was
survival. One of them told me that in
a rare moment of communication.
Thanks to the friends I came with,
though, communication became more
frequent.
“So what do you think of my hair?”
One of my friends asks.
“Oh, not bad, a little trim, a little
layering...” More drunken shop-talk
as they massage my friend’s scalp.
“And mine, what about mine?”
Another of my more gregarious
friends goes in for a lock-groping of
his own.
“Nice hair,” the hairdresser purrs
and runs her tongue through the small
gap between her two front teeth,
completely around her dentifrice,
down her throat, into her sinus cavity,
out one ear, down the hall, into her
bedroom, around one of the latches on
her dresser drawers and into the little
silver disc that contains her birth
control pills. “Really sexy.”
“What about Charles?” Another
friend graciously lands me in the lap of
this situation.
There is that moment of silence
where all the images and photographs
I’ve ever seen of car accidents, grain
augur accidents and burn victims flash
through my head.
“Who?” The hairdresser totters.
That farmer’s left arm and leg were
ripped clean off...
“Charles here...” Nice manly slap
on the shoulder for identification’s
sake. Thanks, friend.
It swerved out of control on the ice,
taking out several yards of guardrail
and plummeting into the valley many
miles below...
Charles
Lieurance
“Ooh, lemme see...” The soft hand
starts at the back of my neck and her
fingers begin crawling into my hair.
Grease fire, bubbling blister, three
years of continuous plastic surgery...
A look of repulsion. Did I take the
squidcricket out of my hair this morn
ing? Her tongue flashes back up the
hallway, banging on the stucco walls,
takes out a light fixture and sucks back
into her ear.
“You can’t do anything with this,
it’s just everywhere. Ruined, lost,
unobtainable, unmanageable, the
hair of Satan, the hair of the
damned...” Her hand is having a
spasm in the air, whipping back and
forth, her fingers playing Rachmanin
off on an invisible mid-air piano.
When using the Black and Decker
table saw always use the built-in, very
handy handguard because otherwise
you’ll cut a jagged canal between the
middle and the ring finger...
Moments like this should be re
served for the proud and haughty. I
never really thought about my hair and
I never looked at others’ hair and said,
“My hair is better than yours.” So to
pay for my Samsonian ignorance I get
this.
It’s not the only instance, of course.
When I was little my father turned
my sister’s photographs to the wall
because she went off and joined the
hippies “to look like an Indian,” as
Dad put it. Hair was a big deal back
then. “Gel a haircut!” was a really
significant thing to say to someone. It
put you on one side or the other in
political arguments. It gave away your
economic class within a few thousand
dollars and it often made known what
geographical area of this great land
you were from. Now hair has more to
do with consumerism. Hair sells al
bums. A mohawk will put you on one
side of the record store and a good
short fraternity cut will put you on the
other. It distributes the consumer dol
lar.
To my amazement, hair-bashing
has returned. I’m not sure if politics
has much to do with it. I walk down the
street and some guy turns to his wife
and says, “Is that a girl or a boy,
Martha?”
Have they really hidden-out be
hind their Yosemite salt shakers and
quilt toaster covers since 1973, wait
ing until it was safe to come out and
say stupid things again?
Fraternity boys yell out their win
dows: “Get a haircut!” These are
young people. Are they from Mars?
Who sent them? Is the Vietnam War
over yet? Let’s get our boys home.
So why don’t I get it cut off? Why
don’t I go to some reasonable old coot
with palsey who believes saying “I
want a haircut” is enough, and have
him wittle out some roughly human
hair formation from this thick mess of
straw?
The hippies had two reasons, and
although I don’t want to be saddled
with their mass neuroses, I share those
reasons with them: In the course of a
day I rarely think about my hair until
all the barber shops are closed and, as
Bob Weir of The Grateful Dead said
so aptly in 1969, “I don’t have the
bucks.
f "■ . " ■
“Su
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