There isn’t much that I regret about my youth.
I was a master crayfish hunter and a rabid baseball card collector. I swam in the ocean and fished in the river and when I was about 12 and my mom went to work and had to leave my younger brother and me home alone in the summer, I practiced my Ninja Arts by hurling steak knives at the cheap wooden pictures of fruit we had hanging in the kitchen.
In other words, I had a lot of fun. I wasn’t always the soul of good behavior…but I had fun.
Still, one thing I do regret never experiencing was the Mohawk.
Remember the first time you laid eyes on someone in your class walking into to geometry with a high ridge of mousse spikes? I don’t know about you, but secretly, I was blown away. I loved that feeling, the slight punk-ness of it all when every nerd, cheerleader, jock, stoner, creepster and teacher was staring at the kid through completely different paradigms.
Nowadays, I see kids, almost always boy, younger and younger getting Mohawk haircuts. And I like that a lot. I think it kind of screams ‘Badge of Individuality’, don’t you? A six year old with a slightly shocking racing stripe down the middle of his head is sort of saying to the world:
“Hey world, guess what…I’m six, I have arrived, and I am gonna do things my way!”
It’s like a perfect extension of the punk ethic of the 1970′s, a sort of unconscious tribute to that beautiful notion of spirit over everything and anything else, pulled off by the only ones who could ever do it really right: the young.
And, I wish I had gotten one when I had the chance.
It would look dumb on me now, huh?
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