Hair Defines the Adolescent

“John, as soon as your show is over it’s time for your bath. I bought new shampoo; I want you looking extra great for your class pictures tomorrow.”

Quiz. Is John in?
A- Fourth Grade
B- Eighth Grade
C- Eleventh Grade

Having trouble with the answer? Think HAIR.

Answer: A. [By high school, the teen has trained his parents to know that he can and will take care of his own hair. Not C. By the middle school years, vanity has set in; he has already begun to obsess over his own hair and how he looks to others. Certainly not B. That leaves only elementary school where the show’s the thing, not the hair -- after all, isn’t that what parents are for?]

Hair defines adolescence.

Hair. And more hair. It sprouts from the joints. Where the arms join the body and where the legs come together. Though it itches, it’s new – and it’s secret. Mom can’t see it. It’s all mine and mine alone. When I’m alone I’ll pet it; in the shower I’ll froth it. It’s mine, all mine.

Hair. And it spreads – up and down my legs. Can it be? Even a bit under my nose? And then, suddenly, it’s a badge, a statement. “Johnny, what’s that I see growing there. Need a shave? Naw, just bring the cat in to lick it off.” Suddenly I’m being kidded about hair. Hair! Would you believe it? Do you think she’ll notice? No you fool, not mom!

Hair. It came with friends. Bumps and lumps of marvelous dimension. Breasts, biceps, penis, feet, and height. Nothing sprouts backwards – it all points towards the future and new heights. And, it all began with hair. And, it’s all me, so much of me.

Hair. I own it. Some of it’s secret –though I think they know. I wash it; I love it. I comb it up, and I comb it over. The mirror has become my new best friend … and critic. This way? No, I need to get it cut. Like Damon’s? Or perhaps Tim? Should I cut it short for soccer? No, I like the way it feels when I run. I am so Wow when it flops forward as I head the ball into the goal. And how it drips after the game. It shimmers – and she loves it, she loves my sweat – even if she doesn’t want to get too close. She loves the way I shine; it’s so hot after a game, I just have to pull off my shirt. Sooooo hot!

Hair. It’s all about the “I”. Count them in the paragraph above. Fourteen of them; fourteen confirmations that I exist. And the cheers! What a crowd. (Even mom and dad came.) But so did she. She! She noticed; she waved, she cheered… and I’ll see her after I shower.

Hair. It’s all about control; it’s power. I shape it. I take care of it. I make my own decisions, not mom, not dad. No matter how much they complain. It’s mine; perhaps I’ll get a Mohawk that’ll really freak them out. Dad’s just jealous anyway; he wishes he had my hair, even any hair.

Hair. I’ll pull it back for soccer, let it hang down for the party, part it nicely for church with mom and dad, and later, when I meet Sam and the others for some basketball, well who cares. Though, Sam’s new crew sure looks weird.

Hair. I’ve a secret life and a public life; and I think about both. All the time. I can make it happen. I can do it. Get it. Hair-do! Well hair does. It does the trick. Not the same all the time, depends on which world I’m in. Some times I’m in my “yes-mam” school world; or my “oh-shit” world with the guys, or the “sweet” world with her (remember her, you met her at the game), or the “see-you-later” world with the rents. So many worlds! And I juggle them all. “John, watch your language. I heard you and your friends after the game. I’m going to talk to your coach!” “No you’re not mom.” Juggling. Sometimes the balls collide and I rush to catch them before they fall, but then I get them up again, swirling high above my hair, higher, smoother. I’m so great. Oops missed that one! All over the floor, in front of all my friends. I feel like puke; like all my hair just fell out.

Adolescence. Give it up as a term! How about hirsute instead?