I never noticed before, but my father-in-law combs his hair forward and slicks it down. Due, I suppose, to his attempt at minimizing the effect of his ever encroaching forehead. Looks sort of like Caesar (or at least, Graham Chapman who played Caesar in “The Life of Brian”) or the British director Lindsay Anderson. It got me to thinking about baldness. More specifically, the disappearance of the “combover”. I wonder when the last time was that I saw someone “Levesque” their hair.
Is “Levesque” even a verb? To “Levesque” one’s hair is to grow one side of fringe that can be combed over to meet the other side. Named affectionately (or not) after a former chain-smoking Premier of Quebec whose combover was quite evident. Defining, in fact.
My friend Allan has what he refers to as “Bozo wings” when he lets his fringe grow too long. Another friend John is mor Icabod. Picture the actor Christopher Lloyd as Dr. Emmett Brown in “Back to the Future”.
Many of my friends just shave their whole head at the first sign of “male pattern baldness” which disguises their age somewhat in that it makes them look tougher, younger, smarter. One friend with a “chrome dome” looks sort of like Daddy Warbucks another like Kojak and yet another friend looks like Yul Brynner. I think the shaved head looks best.
My ex-friend “Dan” lost his hair in his early twenties and he was quite uptight about it at the time because he was a musician and thought he needed hair for it. My friend David (who I have never known with hair) put a female wig on at Hallowe’en and it really did transform him. His face now framed with blonde tresses made him look like someone else entirely
I am into my 60’s and have a full head of hair still. A bit of grey, but not pushing it. I don’t know how my hairless friends feel about being bald. Some have said “you’re lucky” to have a full head of hair implying somehow that they are less lucky. I always point out that my head is this huge square block that if shaven would scare kids…Every bald guy I know has a round head, and baldness in their case is not the aesthetic disaster it would be in mine
One thing for sure, and I suppose the reason for this essay is that I am glad I never had to “Levesque” my hair.
The year 2016 saw many icons of music die who had had an impact on my life. In January, the rock artist David Bowie died within days of releasing the masterful and poignant Black Star. On Nov. 7 Leonard Cohen died; On November 8 the unspeakable was elected in the U.S.(democracy died). On Nov. 13 Leon Russell,and Nov. 15, Mose Allison died. These may not mean anything to you, but were huge losses to me.
In a year marked by such public tragedy and grief, an enormous personal tragedy befell me and my family. Our beloved friend (uncle to my girls) Danny Lewis died on October 21st.
Danny wore many hats in his life. It would be hard to find anyone more interesting and/or unbelievable than Danny. He was well-travelled, had jobs from taxi driver to potter to technical writer and organic farmer. He seemed to know so many odd facts, conversed at length on disparate subjects and always injected his thoughts with abundant humour and intelligent ideas. Some of Danny’s stories were pretty far-fetched, but he was always able to convince that most elements of the story were true and that if there was some reason to stretch it, that also became true. His stories, rants, and his general take on things delighted and fascinated all who came in contact with him. My daughters loved him dearly. He was a confidante and a sage non-parental unit to them.My younger daughter even has a caricature of Danny tattooed on her arm. I valued Danny as a friend. He never let me down except by dying….
The girls and I spent lots of time at Danny’s organic farm in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, near the Vermont border. His farm was on a crest of land that Danny bragged was the highest elevation of arable or cultivated land in the province. Who knows if that is true or not? The way Danny said it, it became true. He called his printing business and his farm “Topedahill” which is a nonsense word that he was able to get past the Office de la langue Francais (businesses in Quebec can’t have English names.) Danny was clever. Danny was kind. He let my family vacation at the farm dozens of times. When I was going through my separation and divorce he sheltered me and the girls for many months at his home in the city. Danny seemed unfazed by visitors. He always greeted phone calls and visitors enthusiastically, even when he was suffering and in dire pain. In 2007 I wrote the song below for Danny. The original recording of this song was a “one off” demo that I gave to Danny and, like him, it is gone.
Danny’s Farm By: Ian Goodall Hanchet
I’ve got a friend who lives on Topadehill If I need someone to help me I know he will Life’s a bit too hectic here I need a rest I need some cheer
I know the country’s where to go so I Hop into the car you know it isn’t very far I’m going down to Danny’s farm down to Danny’s farm down to Danny’s, down to Danny’s farm
City life is too eclectic Everything is too electric I’m gonna sink like the Titanic Get me back to where life’s organic (chorus) I know the country’s where to go When I need some country charm I just go down to Danny’s farm
when I’m on the fringe and every thing has come unhinged then I know it’s when it’s time to take me there again (chorus) When I need to get away When I need things to go slow I know where to stay I know where to go (chorus)
On September 21, 2016 Leonard Cohen released a CD for what was going to be his last time. I purchased “You Want It Darker” as soon as it was released. Leonard’s late in life music tended to blues forms and lyrics that rhythmically interested me. The song “You Want It Darker” hit me like a freight train. I transcribed and learned it immediately. I don’t often cover Leonard’s songs, but this one hit me in the same way “Make It Rain” by Tom Waits hit me. They could be companion pieces. When the news of Cohen’s death in November spread through the tiny “folk” community to which I belong , we immediately went into mourning. My friend Brenda worked for the synagogue that was going to process Leonard’s funeral and had been sitting on exclusive news of his demise for three days (Leonard died on the 7th and the news broke on the 10th) before the news became public. She was present at our open mic. and heaved a huge sigh of relief and tears and had a stiff drink. She had been sworn to secrecy, and like the trustworthy person she is she kept her word. We musicians immediately wanted to pay tribute. My contribution was “You Want It Darker”.
Retracing my autumn, I go back to a story of what my friend Hal Newman posted on the 20th of October just a day before Danny died. Hal lived in Stanstead, Qc. on the border with Vermont. He had been awakened pre-dawn by hundreds of crows ( a murder of crows) in a tree outside his bedroom. I quipped “Murder On The Border” which I thought would make a great song title. (Apparently already existed as a book and movie, but I didn’t know that.) We agreed that it was a great song title. With Danny dying the next day I was “distracted” and forgot about the title until I started to imagine macabre scenarios. Danny’s body was at the morgue (as yet unclaimed by his family) and lengthy conversations between us survivors added to the imagery. Danny’s farm is also on the border with Vermont about 18 km away from Hal. Many of the scenes I imagined in this song are actual locations on Danny’s property. I was drinking coffee at my favourite Mexican cafe (Cafe 92). On the walls are beautiful and macabre posters celebrating Dia de la muerta. The next day we were to celebrate Danny’s life and commit his ashes back to the earth. This song is the confluence of Leonard Cohen, Danny, Cafe 92 and the Crows and Hallowe’en approaching. The song and the video arrived effortlessly in my imagination.
Retracing again, I received three urgent messages from my accountant which was highly unusual for October. Danny and I were both clients. I believe it was Danny who recommended him in the first place. We were both viewed by Doug as “slackers” in the tax filing department. It was a standing joke as to who would get his crap in first. I knew it was something bad. The news broke my heart. I then got to the task of informing others of this sad news. My daughters took it very badly. Friends in common were aghast! My friends Peter and Helen had had Danny over the night before and there were no indications of anything beyond the usual wrong with Danny. The next day, this came out:
Three urgent messages What could be worse? They always said of love Someone always leaves first
two short words
there goes my universe Your heart gave out My heart just burst
Who can I call now? Danny knew everything Who can I call now? Danny was always there
Who can I call now? He was my first call
who can I call now? he could spin silk
Who can I call now? who will divert me?
Who can I call now? Why’d you desert me, huh?
With news good or bad Any time of night or day
He never let me down He never pushed me away Who can I call now? Danny knew everything
Who can I call now? Danny was always there, Who can I call now? Now that Danny’s gone
Late Autumn is generally a stark and foreboding time of year where I live (Quebec). The trees become skeletons and the ground becomes hard. We all know what is coming. This Autumn of 2016 was the worst. The US election was the foulest and worst nightmare scenario imaginable. I won’t talk about that here because there has been too much written about it already…. I was a big fan of Leon Russell. His “Stranger In A Strange Land” and “This Masquerade” are two pearls among many others. Wonderful musician. Mose Allison was a witty and sardonic Jazz and Blues artist whose style and hipness and great songs influenced me greatly. Needless to say all this death and dying and the hopelessness of the world events weighed heavily on my shoulders. This ensued:
Thank you for reading and listening. I apologize for jumping around in time. It isn’t supposed to make chronological sense. Hard to make any sense out of anything when grieving. I hope I was able to convey that songs don’t just come out of nowhere. This was a sad period. Art was made.
I just realized I don’t have any pictures of David.
David McDonald (from St. Eustache) was a high school friend who I stayed in touch with for almost thirty years after we graduated. The last communication I had from him was in January 2004. A postcard from his hotel room telling me he had lost all his e-mail addresses when the Tsunami hit Krabi. He said he was banged up a bit, but survived, and would be home in time for his birthday in February. A few days after the postcard arrived, I got a mysterious phone message from one of his sisters urging me to please contact her. I figured it was about a surprise party for his homecoming/birthday, but the news was dire. David had died in his hotel bed while reading. Shock and disbelief and questions swirled in my head.
David loved to travel. He was a consultant for CIDA (Canadian International Development Agency) and essentially travelled all over to write papers on whether Canada should invest in various projects or not. He was a geographer, and assessed environmental impact of these projects and whether everything was in line with our governmental policies concerning every aspect of investing. He loved his job, fluent in French, English and then Spanish, he was able to travel broadly to nations that spoke those languages.
He even travelled for vacation. Dave was in Thailand after spending nearly a month in Nepal on vacation. These are places with great and readily available drugs. My friend was a connoisseur. David was a “Bon Vivant”. The official story of his death was that he was missing his blood pressure pills and he was banged up. My instinct told me otherwise.
We were taught by Presentation brothers at a boarding school for “troubled youth” in Montebello, Quebec and all the boys had “house duties”. Ours was to care for Brother Raymond’s plants while he was off in Ireland (he was “Provincial”, which meant he overlooked several schools and several other groups of monks). Dave suggested that we plant some pot seeds among Brother Raymond’s other plants, so we did. The pot grew well and we were never detected. We replanted some outdoors and there was a photo of him and me grinning through the leaves. At the funeral, his sister said she had that photo and promised to send it to me. Didn’t happen.
Several times a week we all had to “run the U” for exercise. The “U” a 7 km route through picturesque rural Quebec farmland. Picture a hundred boys running along a gravel road that looped back in a “U”. Brother Stafford was driven up and down the road in a Renault with his portly head poking up through the sun roof and encouraging us to run through his megaphone by saying. ” remember boys, ‘no pain, no gain!'”
One hot sunny day in May, David and I were really lagging behind. We were only running half-heartedly, and when Brother Stafford (who we all referred to as ‘Agnes’) had driven past us, David said “follow me” and we peeled off to the left and into a thicket of dense trees.
There was a footpath that led us to a hidden swimming hole at the foot of a tiny waterfall in a creek surrounded by moss and ferns and heather. It was heaven. How David knew about this, I’ll never know. We stripped naked and plunged into the dark pool and frolicked and laughed joyfully in the cool refreshing water. We got out to air dry on the moss and David lit a joint. We laid back and marvelled in the moment at the beauty surrounding us and Dave’s cleverness at not only avoiding the “U”, but at creating a perfect moment, now a perfect memory.
After a while in our reverie we heard the lead boys returning, (the other side of the “U”) the rhythmic pounding of sneakers on gravel and much puffing and snorting. We heard the Renault whizzing back and forth. We got dressed and after the largest body of runners had passed, we bolted out of the woods with our still wet hair and tucked safely in with some exhausted and oblivious Juniors and we pretended to look like we’d run the whole way.
Dave turned to me and said slyly, “No pain, no pain!”
I live in Montreal,Canada, and I stay put most of the time. I have my wanderlust in check. I love it here. Last night, a friend of mine pointed out that I have been travelling a lot lately. I guess I have. I vacationed in North Wales and did side trips to London and Liverpool. I also recently played a gig in our nation’s capitol, and most recently made a trip to New York City.
I travel to the States most often. I have a daughter, friends and extended family who live there. Travelling by automobile, it is reasonably easy to visit adjacent states. There are four states that border on Quebec: NY, Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. I have visited all of them within the last several years despite my visceral opposition to the American president and the awful imperialistic and militaristic policies of (typically) Republicans.
Even before “T” I found the border a bit intimidating. I don’t like uniforms or guns (not in that order). My car is not pristine and I look like a hippie. I have to put on a mask of obedience and subservience at the border which is ironic as they always ask me to remove my shades, and neither obedience or subservience is prominent in my real character.
My wife simply WON”T go since the election of “T”. She always feels traumatized by the border. She was not born in Canada, she was born in India which always results in further scrutiny from the border police. She has about as much in common with terrorism as a kitten has in common with a python.
In the summer of 2016 (pre-T) I rented a cottage in Vermont for several days. I had to split my vacation between my wife (3 days) and my girls (4 days) due to their conflicting work Schedules. This meant I had to traverse the border several times in either direction with different passengers in the car. I witnessed my wife’s discomfort and we got questioned (not about her nationality) about the two Shih-Tzus travelling with us. They let us pass, but scolded us for not having their papers with them….. After our three days together we returned to Montreal and I piled my girls into the jeep and we returned. BAM! Pulled over, car searched, tomatoes confiscated….the elder daughter was questioned about a student visa she had had to study in Texas. It had been 2 years since she had decided to not pursue the degree and moved away. After a half hour of waiting they let us through and supposedly entered her change of status into the “system”.
At Canadian Thanksgiving that year, my siblings and I rented a house on Lake Champlain just across the border. Lake Champlain is partly in Canada and separates NY from Vt. I was prepared for our weekend. We brought food and I brought my guitar. I thought going through at a small crossing like Beebe Plain at an odd hour would be a breeze…… They rummaged through everything, cut open a sealed package of cookies, didn’t treat anything respectfully. I had to bite my tongue when the guard gestured to my guitar case and asked “what is it?” and then “what’s it for”. I hate having to stifle my sarcasm. He then gestured to my box of CDs and warned “You’d better not be intending to sell those!” I said it was unlikely seeing as my family already had copies of all my CDs and we were going to a cottage. Sharon scolded me afterward for being too “familiar”.
They let us through. Then “T” happened. The world immediately got sick. I vowed to not go south while he was in office. I have since broken that vow because my younger daughter now lives there, and I have to visit her, and due to tie ups with her Visa status etc. It is best she not come up here.
I went down to NYC last week. At the border with my older daughter, we got flagged and told to pull into the customs and immigration building parking lot. We did, and went inside, but not before encountering a surly GI Joe type guy who barked at us to go inside. I thought, “How Rude” and “what an asshole!” Then I saw how he treated the next people who had just pulled up. He screamed at them “What are you parking there for?” and gestured menacingly and inhospitably (is that redundant?) to a stall.
The people behind us were a young family (Mum and Dad with a toddler and infant) who looked like they might be middle eastern (that is to say they were light brown) and as I learned later had “foreign-sounding” names.
We waited and waited to be called. I took advantage of this time to use the facilities. When I got back my daughter leaned in to me and whispered to me that we were the only white people pulled over. I looked around and sure enough that of the 20 or so people, we were the only white people in the waiting area. Ema was indignant. She said she was angry, that this was not right. I said “You’re right, but let’s keep a lid on it til we clear our hurdle.” I also noticed that EVERY officer on duty was white and male and dressed like GI Joe. We were called after a man named Malik who was interrogated VERY thoroughly with stupid questions like: “Are these your children” etc. I witnessed Systemic racism first hand.
I looked at the baseball caps with CBP on them worn by the officers and in my poetic dyslexic way, I started thinking PCB and CBD and CDN….etc. As I write I had to look CBP up to be sure of the actual acronym…..
We had to explain Ema’s non-student status over again, and they had to go into the “system” and verify everything. We got through, and they didn’t search the car which is a good thing because I have a prescription for CBD oil for my migraines, CBD is illegal in the US (which is criminal in itself…), and although I have synthetic CBD (which is allowed in the US) I also had a tablet of chocolate that was made with CBD in my luggage.
About 20 miles into the States there was a huge roadblock on I 87. A dozen or so cop cars in the median and several lines of cars waiting to proceed southward. There was a sniffer dog walking with his/her handler going up and down the line of stopped cars. I felt a bit nervous, because I know how good a dog’s nose is (ironic for a species that eats poop, but I digress). We were waved on as I showed my passport to the cop. I am surmising that they were looking for Americans who bought pot legally in Canada and were headed back with it.
We had a lovely trip. I didn’t need the CBD chocolate after all.
Coming home, we approached the border. The guard for our queue was female and her skin was black. She addressed us in both official languages (English and French) and was courteous and professional. She asked us where we lived, how long we’d been in the US and if we had anything to declare? I did. I had two bottles of “Heaven’s Door” (Bob Dylan brand Whiskey) and a framed photo that we had shipped to my brother’s place to save on international shipping. She gave me our passports back and said “Have a nice day!”
To quote Paul Simon “Gee, but it’s great to be back home”. If you hear the song as you read that, you’re my kind of person.
One of the little things I take pleasure in is giving an alias to the baristas at Starbucks when they ask for my name. I am usually buying a latte for my sweetie. I have used some such as: “The Emperor”; “Viking Banana”;”Ziggy Stardust”; “The Dude”; etc.
I also like to give the names of famous musicians as well. I have used “Frank Zappa”; “Willie Nelson” and “Bob Dylan”.
This little game usually puts a smile on the person’s face who took the order and also the person who prepares the coffee. I make a point of asking who it’s for if the barista just hands it out. If the name is really absurd I might ask them to announce it louder. It is a fun game and most of the servers go along with it. They won’t print swearing, which I understand but I find irritating. I wanted to use “corporate prick” and was refused.
One time I told the Barista I was the “Queen of Sheba” who is a biblical figure of repute. An African Queen who bore gifts of great value to King Solomon. The barista wrote “Queen of Shiva” which is a word likely known to the man who was probably jewish rather than Hindu. In Judaism, shiva is a period of mourning. In Hinduism it is a god of asceticism (deprival)…similar, but not Sheba.
My latest encounter was when I told the person taking my order that I was “Beethoven”. She complied and before I saw it she said it was “probably mis-spelled”. I asked “How can you mis-spell such a famous name?” She said “I am in Science, not music!” I told her I was in music, but I could spell “Einstein” and furthermore I asked her if “for example, you are writing a Master’s thesis on Hydrocarbons, what would happen if you got “Hydrocarbon” wrong? We agreed she would probably fail. She then exclaimed… “in my defense, I am dyslexic!” which to me is not a defense at all, but an excuse because I, too, am dyslexic and have only used that as an excuse for comedic reasons as in “I have sex daily” which is an anagram of “I have dyslexia”. (I’d rather have sex daily for the record.)
When I got the coffee and read the label on the cup I was amazed at how wrong she could have gotten it. I was tempted to ask if she was related to Donald Trump, but that would have been cruel and insulting.
When my grandparents arrived in Canada from Great Britain, they brought with them so many of the customs and values of their thoroughly British upbringing. At the time, the Canada they arrived in was a colony of the British Empire, soon to be renamed the Commonwealth. Granted, their adapting to the new world was less drastic than people who need to learn the language, customs and mores of their adopted country. Another major difference is that my grandparents were not refugees. Their immigrating was voluntary and gentle and direct. My grandfather never gave up his Victorian views despite being here in Canada for over sixty years (all of his adult life except the years spent overseas in the Canadian Army in the First World War). My father was born here and espoused Canadian values with a slight tinge of his British heritage showing through. He never missed the Queen’s Christmas message for example. I am fully Canadian and never have visited England (yet). I am fluently bilingual and considerably less dogmatic than my dad.
One can only imagine the culture shock that someone coming from a non-English or French speaking culture must experience. How about coming from a war-torn nation where ideologies shoot at each other and information is either un-trustworthy or non-existent? Bewildered and amazed, we ask a lot of these people right off the bat. How can they assimilate quickly? Why should they? It may or may not happen.
Several years ago, just before the 2015 Canadian election while I was out for a stroll, I watched three generations of women walking down the street toward me. Grandmother was wearing traditional garb. Very colourful and head fully covered including a scarf over the face. The next generation wore a Hijab that matched her beige western outfit. The third generation was in slacks and a sweater, dressed like my daughter would. It made me happy. I don’t know their story, it is none of my business, but I knew these three women were safe here. They have the benefits of their own culture while enjoying the freedoms inherent in Canadian society.
That very morning, I heard people being interviewed on CBC about their political choices. Many mentioned the NDP’s support of people who wear the Burqa as a reason for abandoning the party. It saddened me that fear-mongering and intolerance and misunderstanding on an issue that barely affects them on a day-to-day basis overrides the awful truths of the ugly transformations in Canada (under Harper, a polluting, warring country that the obfuscators in power had bullied through with a majority of seats but merely a third of actual support from voting Canadians.
The Tories (actually Reform party=Northern Republicans) were poised to do the exact same thing they had done the last time. Split the support between the reasonable people who wish to support and protect our Society (Green, Liberal, NDP, Bloc) so that their votes are squandered and the self-congratulatory xenophobic bigots drive triumphantly around the right flank based on empty boasting about Leadership and supposed Fiscal mastery that are easily disproved.
At the time I wrote “Don’t let the country be hijacked again. Vote strategically so that Canada can get back on track.”
We are headed into another federal election with the landscape altered . After several provincial elections and the fiasco in the States have put arrogant, philistine right wing privilege in power with their bigotry in action and on display makes me fear those muslim women I saw are not as safe as I would like them to be. It is not a direction that makes me proud to be Canadian.
The last election was won by a liberal majority who have outshone their predecessors with several key promises made, but have failed miserably on so many key issues (Parliamentary reform for example). I hope that the election results in 2019 bring us a more balanced minority government that focuses on the environment and core values of health, education and equity for all.
With the cyber vomit that will be coming soon, I suspect the wrong things will be done for the wrong reasons and our jewel of a nation will be tarnished and damaged by the populism and partisan hatred like our neighbours to the south.
“On Your Image” is a phrase used in recovery to describe the lifestyle you are projecting to others. We are all on our image whether we like it or not. We are all either: A.) in some sort of recovery from some sort of damage or the other or B.) in denial. I am not talking about formal recovery like rehab or a 12 step program, just the way we traverse the years and deal with adversity and wounds from the past. Face em or bury em.
I woke up two days ago and decided to get my hair cut. This is probably a common occurrence for most people. They get a hair cut weekly? Bi-weekly? monthly? It has been a long time since I had had even a trim. The last trim I remembered was before my wedding over two years ago. Getting my hair cut was a big deal to me.
Most guys my age either don’t have hair, or they do, but it is white. There are also combinations of balding and whiteness/greyness that men my age contend with. This sets me apart from that category “men my age”. Most teachers are relatively clean cut. Hair sets me apart from that group as well. While out walking the dogs several years ago a neighbour introduced himself and said “So, you’re the neighbourhood hippie!” I was relieved that I did not fit in to this setting. I stood out. With long hair I could maintain the delusion of immortality and being an outsider, a counter-culture rebel, a musician. and not “the man”: Teacher, dad, suburban middle-class, middle-aged curmudgeon which is actually closer to the truth.
Image. Ego. Insecurity.
I used to be proud of my “I don’t give a shit what others think” attitude. Turns out I do care more than I thought. I present as someone who doesn’t give a shit, but hidden from view is this insecurity and fear of being normal. being mediocre. being forgettable, being boring….gasp!!!!
As a teenager I had many struggles with my parents over the length of my hair. I liked it long. All my heroes were hippies and yippies and Rock musicians who I wanted to emulate. I even started a petition in High School as to whether I should cut my hair. My favourite comment was from my vice principal who wrote that “Leroy Beals has no concern with what is on the outside of Ian’s head, he is, however deeply concerned with what is on the inside of Ian’s Head”.
My hair was not always long. For the first half of my adult life, I kept it kind of short. Sometimes spikey. Punk. As a young teacher, Music Therapist and dad, short hair and a clean shaven face were how I presented. Short hair does not get pulled when interacting with young children with Autism or my own babies. I never had to shave more than once a week because my “whiskers” were only barely visible. My heroes at the time were Jazz musicians whose hair did not figure into their coolness.
Things shifted for me a few years back as my mom was descending into her dementia and my job satisfaction was diminishing and my first marriage was crumbling. I discovered that without the judgement of my mom, I was free to do whatever I wanted. Her voice telling me to “forgive” and to “turn the other cheek” turned into a “NO!” I don’t want to take this anymore from anyone. I started to let my hair grow, and when my mum died I had the freedom to make clear choices without the cloud of her invading my conscience. I switched jobs. switched partners. Switched on my creative juices. My musical output went from “sporadic” to “frequent” to “constant” and my self-esteem and confidence started to blossom. All of this coincided with my growing my hair longer.
Just before getting it cut, my hair was half way down my back. It got caught in my seat belt and my harmonica holder (not at the same time…). All shoulder straps pulled my hair. My hair blew all over my face on windy days, stuck to my sweaty neck on hot days, got in my mouth sometimes when eating My bird (Johnny Winter) would like to burrow up in there like some divine nest. Getting my hair cut was a big deal for me. My hair kinda defined me.
I went from being “Jack Nicholson” to “Sting” to “The Dude” through to “Willie Nelson”, “Gandalf”, “ZZ Top” and “biker” or “viking”. Guess who is more “on his image” than the people he sat back and judged? Did you notice that I was projecting an image of “other” that has other people’s names on it? Oh the narcissism, vanity and hubris I am guilty of!
I was thinking that my hair is where my strength came from. Like Samson, whose hair was the source of his strength and a symbol of God’s power. When his hair had been cut by the trickery of Delilah, he lost everything and he was captured by the Philistines who blinded him by gouging out his eyes.
The Philistines are the last people you want to contend with as an artist. They are the enemies of freedom and truth and beauty. Unawake people with little or no time or aesthetic sensibility. I hate them, try to ignore them. They are stupid. I certainly don’t want them controlling my life. Guaranteed they vote for pigs.
Well. I am not Samson. My hair is not the source of my strength. Never was. I cut my hair and lo and behold, I am still here. No fear of Philistines. Feeling stronger than ever.
I am free of this burden for the time being. My hair is going to be sewn into a wig for someone whose “image” has changed due to the indignities of trying to save their life through chemotherapy. They are not “on their image”. They are projecting “sick person”. Who the hell wants to project that?! If a small vanity of a wig restores some of their “non-sick person” my hair will have done more good than it ever did on my head.