Creative Burst - My Life Story in Three Incidents Involving Hair
So let me tell you first that I had a lot more hair when I was younger. I mean a lot more. I let it grow out quite a bit when I was in high school. Maybe too much, but nevertheless, it was going to get long if it was the last thing I did. I had sported shorter hair for some time in my early high school years. The dorky bowl-cut specialty that my mom would do for me simply because it was cheaper (and this was long before the Flo-bee so you can imagine). So when I was done with the shorter hair I decided that I was going to see how long it would get. Alas, my mullet was born. The hair naturally parted down the middle and the back curled up into cute little locks which I would tend to with a brush and hair dryer in hopes that I could get them straight, or to at least curl under.
Well this grooming and growing went on for about two years, from the age of seventeen to nineteen. When I was nineteen I was faced with the need to “get a real job” since the life of working at many different stores in the mall wasn't going to cut it anymore, especially with my mother. So I applied to the grocery store down the street as a clerk. I figured, my father did it for years and the store pays well, in fact better than I've ever made at any point in my life, so why not?
I was sitting across from the store manager as he was scrutinizing my application. He was a square-headed, rotund guy with a bad mustache. A bit awkward, but foreboding nonetheless. We discussed my past experience which included helping my father at the store he used to work at which ironically enough was in the exact same space as the current store where I was applying. We discussed the salary which was acceptable to me. Then he leaned to one side, took a look at the curls hanging down off the back of my head and said, you'll have to cut your hair. Oh, no problem, I replied almost immediately.
What a surprise that I would give in so easily to a part of me that I treasured so much. I could I just willy-nilly say that I'd cut my hair. I had spent a lot of time growing it as long as it was. So I decided that I would cut it just enough to get by. So a little came off. The little that came off kept the natives happy. And I was happy.
Within six months I was faced with the need to address my hair again, this time again for a new job. I was back at the mall where I had spent many days and nights peddling merchandise and services like foam core-mounted posters and ski equipment. But this time I was charged with protecting it all as a mall security officer. I aspired to be a cop and what better place to start, to get my feet wet, than in mall security? But as the interview day approached I realized once again (preemptive this time) that my hair was going to be an issue. I could not sport such a mullet and be taken seriously as a mall security officer. So I got another trim, but to compensate for losing more of my hair—it was now off my shoulders completely—I dyed it jet black. Thus earning the nickname “Ponch” after my first couple weeks on the job.
Well this grooming and growing went on for about two years, from the age of seventeen to nineteen. When I was nineteen I was faced with the need to “get a real job” since the life of working at many different stores in the mall wasn't going to cut it anymore, especially with my mother. So I applied to the grocery store down the street as a clerk. I figured, my father did it for years and the store pays well, in fact better than I've ever made at any point in my life, so why not?
I was sitting across from the store manager as he was scrutinizing my application. He was a square-headed, rotund guy with a bad mustache. A bit awkward, but foreboding nonetheless. We discussed my past experience which included helping my father at the store he used to work at which ironically enough was in the exact same space as the current store where I was applying. We discussed the salary which was acceptable to me. Then he leaned to one side, took a look at the curls hanging down off the back of my head and said, you'll have to cut your hair. Oh, no problem, I replied almost immediately.
What a surprise that I would give in so easily to a part of me that I treasured so much. I could I just willy-nilly say that I'd cut my hair. I had spent a lot of time growing it as long as it was. So I decided that I would cut it just enough to get by. So a little came off. The little that came off kept the natives happy. And I was happy.
Within six months I was faced with the need to address my hair again, this time again for a new job. I was back at the mall where I had spent many days and nights peddling merchandise and services like foam core-mounted posters and ski equipment. But this time I was charged with protecting it all as a mall security officer. I aspired to be a cop and what better place to start, to get my feet wet, than in mall security? But as the interview day approached I realized once again (preemptive this time) that my hair was going to be an issue. I could not sport such a mullet and be taken seriously as a mall security officer. So I got another trim, but to compensate for losing more of my hair—it was now off my shoulders completely—I dyed it jet black. Thus earning the nickname “Ponch” after my first couple weeks on the job.
posted by Tim Kenyon at
11:30 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home