When are You Going to Cut Your Hair?

I’ll cut my dreadlocks when the war is over

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I’ve had dreadlocks for over a decade. Sometime in 2002, I decided to let my hair grow, and due to frequent camping and infrequent combing, one little dreadlock started to form behind my neck in 2003. Instead of trying to comb or cut it out, I figured it shouldn’t be alone and decided to give it some company. A girl I was dating at the time had dreadlocks and helped me form mine through some twisting, teasing and rolling between her hands. I went through a period that I wore a lot of hats and “earned” dreadlocks from a mat that resembled a rat’s nest. The locks were pulled and separated, and as they began to tighten up, I made a switch from greasy grocery store shampoo garbage to natural soaps that don’t leave residue behind.

I got a lot of attention, both wanted and unwanted over the years that these ropes have hung from my skull. I have both captured the fascination of the opposite sex and been profiled by law enforcement. That’s only the surface though. I have had fun with my hair, making it part of a costume, whipping it around while dancing at shows, even making it into a curtain around the faces of past lovers. Over the years I have accumulated a lot of hitch-hikers. Not just the ones that put their thumb out, (although probably quite a few of those too) but the ones that get stuck in my mop and become part of my historical timeline. As well as lint from my love of the hooded sweatshirt, stray dog hairs and the occasional cocktail sword, I’ve filled my head with blown-glass beads. I’m a glass artist, and I’ve put a bead made from my own hands into my hair every so often so I can exhibit the progress of my artform at all times. There are glass beads in my dreads that were made in 2004. Looking back to that period a decade ago, George W. Bush was running a second term, there were a lot of unanswered questions about the war in Iraq and how it related specifically to the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Needless to say, the path I chose wasn’t taking up a rifle and doing the same deeds that drove the man that raised me to suicide from severe PTSD from being a Marine during the Vietnam war. I went as far in the opposite direction as I could possibly get, both metaphorically and geographically. When people would ask me “When are you going to cut your hair?!” I’d always reply, “When the war is over.”

Moving to Oregon was my American dream. I went to college, (two of them, in different states) and decided I’d rather be an artist than a college student. There were glass schools and a wealth of knowledgeable and experienced artists in the area as well as local manufacturers of supplies that I could hand select purchases from. It was a game-changer, and I was successful at it. Never mind that the market was saturated, I had my contacts on the East Coast where prices were higher and managed to make it home every few months and unload my work to cover my trip (and then some). The dreadlocks eventually became both a protest against, and the equivalent of a suit and tie. This “uniform” resulted in a lot of profiling, negative interactions with law enforcement and security personnel while traveling. It created a constant state of paranoia that at any given time somebody with a badge would confiscate the collection of artwork I had spent weeks, months, at times years in my shop creating. I had many threats in this manner, but managed to hang onto all the work I created that didn’t get stolen by other street people, drug addicts, thieves and hooligan brats. I have literally had tens of thousands of dollars worth of product stolen from me over time and not a finger lifted by police to recover any of it. One of these incidents in particular, a case was emptied of nearly 2 grand in artwork and left in front of a security camera that law enforcement refused to review.

As I began to age, the fascination by the opposite sex came less from college coeds and more from married women, ex-girlfriends, casual hookups and every kind of undesirable you could imagine. It has been a running joke for the past year when I go out to a bar, “How many bros do you think will compliment my dreads and follow it up by asking how long I’ve been growing them out?” On a weekend night of bar-hopping, it happens at least twice on average, and usually while I’m trying to talk to someone else or concentrate on playing pool. It’s not nearly as flattering as it is irritating, but not nearly as irritating as random people just walking up and touching my hair without asking me, which is just flat out fucking creepy if you think about it.

A decade passes as an artist, and I begin to feel the saturation of the glass market. I am a little too conservative for the hippie folk and a little too liberal for the good ol’ boys. I’ve always tried to be a chameleon, but not a shape-shifter. I’ve rekindled the passions that I grew up with, as well a lot of the values that I got from the broken versions of family that somehow have held me together as an individual. I’ve drifted far away from home and made a new one for myself. In spite of thinning opportunity that I’ve migrated for, I’ve grown roots, dropped anchor and fallen in love with where I am. I currently live in a house owned by Ed Epley, who holds a record for the longest-running war protest in American history. He’d just as soon not be known for that record if it meant never having a war to protest against. I’m comfortable knowing that my rent goes towards an old man’s mission of showing up at the courthouse everyday to stand up for peace. However, as Mr. Epley ages through his routine, so do I.

I don’t get asked “When are you going to cut your hair?!” anymore. I get asked “How long have you been growing your hair out?” It’s depressing to answer “As long as we have been at war.” What started as a snarky rebuttal to a condescending question turned into a poor ice-breaking response towards people who were genuinely interested in why I would allow my hair to do this to itself. The follicles of dozens of past lovers in my hair became more of a burden of character than a trophy shelf of bragging rights. The judgement of people who could not get past my form of follicle protest has effected my opportunities not only in employment but with my relationships and friendships. I have tried to explain that my hair is a protest of standing in front of a mirror every morning to put on a show for the outside world. It’s beauty is in the simplicity of not wasting that few minutes of my life every day. Function over form. I want to pretend like I don’t care about my hair, but I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this like some sort of suicide note for my dead skin. The fact is that I have grown tired of this protest. I’ve grown tired of implementing the “bathroom rule,” which entails having my hair up before sitting on a toilet. I’ve grown tired of how long it takes my hair to dry. I’ve grown tired of it trapping unpleasant smells like an old sponge. I’ve grown tired of the comments, even the compliments. I’ve grown tired of the jobs I can’t get. I’ve grown tired of the women who like it as much as the ones that don’t. I’ve grown tired of the dirty looks in the streets and on the river. I’ve grown tired of being harassed by the police. I’ve grown tired of rolling over in the middle of the night and pulling my own hair to the point it wakes me up. I’ve grown tired of the weight I’m carrying, both literally and metaphorically. I’ve grown tired of my follicle protest being an excuse for not wanting to cut them. I’ve grown tired of telling people that I’ll cut my hair when the war is over. I don’t know if I can wait that long anymore.

Photos courtesy of the author