Hair
It was the sixties – 1963 – and I started growing my hair.
There were no gels back then. If you wanted to style it you used greasy brylcreem. I didn’t like the grease.
In the boy’s toilets there were big mirrors and lots of vying for position as boys combed their hair into intricate quiffs and duck-tails.
The Beatles had brought in their combed forward mop-tops. The Stones had taken it further with longer, shaggier hair. My heroes were Phil May of the Pretty Things and Ray Davies of the Kinks. Their hair was shoulder length. I liked that.
I grew my hair. I went for an individual look. I combed in back at the sides and manufactured a long fringe that swept round at the front. It had a kink at the front and took a bit of getting right. I liked it.
My mate Hat had the longest hair. He could pull his quiff down to touch his chin. I was envious.
I started growing facial hair when I was thirteen and soon took to wearing big thick sideburns. I had the best side-burns in school.
My Physics teacher thought I was so hairy I looked like an animal. He started calling me squirrel.
The school had a policy on hair for boys. Hair should not touch your collar, it should not touch your ears and sideburns should not be below the earlobes. I felt this was absurd and was openly rebellious. Hair to me was important; it was part of my identity, sex appeal and stance regarding authority and the establishment – which I did not respect. The Deputy Head saw it as a personal challenge. We were at loggerheads.
The school, and particularly Miss McLoughlan, disliked my hair. Every holiday, from the age of fourteen on, I would grow a beard. Every time I went back to school they would send me home.
I was told to go home and not come back until I’d shaved my beard off.
After three weeks the twagman visited to ask why I had not been to school. I told him I had been told not to go back to school until I’d shaved my beard off and I hadn’t shaved it off yet.
On another occasion I was sent home to shave it off. I shaved off a half inch line down my chin and went back. The Deputy Head caught me again and was furious. Why hadn’t I done as I had been instructed? I told her I had. I had shaved my beard off. These were sideburns and moustache. She did not see the funny side of it.
I don’t know how many days I missed through being sent home for hair, beard, sideburns or uniform infringements, but it was a lot. I delighted in it and enjoyed winding them up. I was defiant.
Into the sixth form it eased up a little but they deemed my rebellious attitude was such that I was not made a prefect. I was the only sixth former who was not a prefect. That was a badge of honour.
By the time I left I had shoulder length hair and a full beard. I think they’d given up on me.
Hair was a symbol of my antiestablishment stance. I did not agree with the direction our society was heading down. I did not see the acquisition of wealth and power as being the aim of life. I did not want to be part of that rat-race. I wanted a more meaningful and creative existence. I did not believe that money made you happy. I did not agree with war, nationalism or the destruction of the planet that seemed to go with the whole capitalist dream. I was reading Kerouac and Ginsberg. I was listening to Roy Harper and Captain Beefheart. I thought I’d discovered a better philosophy.
It served me well.
I’ve had an interesting, creative life without too much compromise.
I went on to become a Headteacher!