Okay, minus the three years that I was in the army.

Why is this significant? Possibly it is just as ridiculous as the fad of long pointed shoes in European royal courts. It got so bad that strings were attached to the tips so people could walk. They were called poulaines. The longer and pointier, the richer you were—and the less you had to do.

In the Sixties, a fashion push came out of England. The Beatles combed their hair forward, then cut it into that bowl shape. It came with Nehru collars, tapered slacks, and pointed boots. An entire look, copied everywhere.

American rockers followed. Pomade disappeared. The flat-top ducktail gave way to something softer, more like the surfers out West.

So was it the music that drove the style?

Yes—and no.

Wearing longer hair became a signal. Non-conformist, even if most of us couldn’t explain what that meant.

I wish it was that clear.

From personal experience, the hair worked perfectly to cover teenage forehead acne. It could show up anywhere, but the forehead was the one place you could hide.

And then there were the ears. Alfred E. Neumann from Mad Magazine—gap-toothed, freckled, and those ears. The hair didn’t need to be long, just long enough to fill the space between skull and ear.

It was an attempt to look better. Basic. How to attract girls, without knowing what to do if it worked.

There was also the money. I got $5 every two weeks for haircuts. I kept the money and skipped the haircut.

So why did this become such a big deal that it reached the Supreme Court?

Because it became a label.

Teachers pointed us toward Animal Farm and Fahrenheit 451. Uncles talked about mountain men and pirates. Classical music was called “long-haired,” though few of us listened to it.

But that’s the cleaned-up version.

This is also an attempt to defuse something else.

Over forty years ago, my wife and I recorded our thoughts about the world before our first child was born. I was about thirty and thought I was pretty wise. Maybe it was the wine, but I went on a rant about longhairs, jocks, nerds, and thugs—the high school pecking order.

The tape still exists. My daughter has it and threatens to play it at family gatherings.

I don’t remember what I said. I assume I said what I thought was true.

Writing this takes away the surprise.

Long hair may have started as a fad, but it was useful. It covered things. It also acted like a uniform—something that let you find others like you.

The problem was, the likeness was often assumed.

Marijuana wasn’t even called weed yet—just a joint, or “Mary Jane,” as if that fooled anyone. The few users were mostly longhairs. I didn’t smoke, so I must have been a narc.

High school is filled with drama.

Day to day, it felt like combat. Long stretches of boredom, then sudden bursts of violence. No knives, no guns—just fists and kicks. I was hit hard enough once that a molar cut through my cheek. I carried a purple knot for months.

There was a simple solution.

Get a haircut.

My father asked me to. He even tried to bribe me. I refused.

Then something changed.

We were visiting his hometown in the Midwest. Walking downtown, he pointed out the theater, the malt shop, the bakery with the best apple pie.

Then we heard screeching tires and saw blue smoke.

Through the haze—arms. Fingers. All pointing at me.

No words. Just open mouths.

My father asked if this happened often.

I said, “No. Usually they just run at me.”

He never asked me to cut my hair again.

There were consequences.

I couldn’t get a normal job. I couldn’t be seen by the public, or trusted by it. The media gave us a name—“hippies.” We didn’t use it. We didn’t like it. At one point, there was even a mock funeral for the last hippie in Golden Gate Park.

So the usual path—work, routine, structure—didn’t take hold.

Instead, I read what was around me. Kerouac. Zen. Later, Whitman. You are what you read.

Anyone could have read those books. But they were labeled “hip.”

Was it a plot? To derail a generation with drugs, books, and unrest?

People argue that.

I’m more certain about the pimples and the ears.

In 1969, the musical Hair put it all on stage. A long, loud celebration of something most of us couldn’t explain.

Such a long, tedious song.

From 1970 to 1971, I had a buzz cut. High and tight. From 1971 to 1973, a regular haircut.

Then I left the military.

And I let my hair grow again.

I looked into it later. Read the articles. JSTOR, historical analysis, legal cases—the “Hair Wars” of the 1960s.

Well written. Well researched.

But they read like distance.

The difference between reporting on D-Day…

and standing on the beach.

Hair wasn’t an idea.

It was a shield.