Hair that Transcends Time
It was a hot summer's afternoon. The temps were in the low hundreds, and the small town in which I was in was sleepy with Sunday energy. Two of my friends were passing through and we went out to find lunch.
We ended up at a brewery, sitting on the porch in the shade, but it was still hot enough our legs stuck to the chairs. The open porch and back yard of the brewery were mostly empty. The music stage sat abandoned, and the few people who were out moved torpidly.
We sat, eating our food and catching up when a white van backed up to the edge of the brewery. I was perfectly angled to see the van, and suddenly, its back door kicked open.
The door bounced, but the foot that kicked it open remained extended straight in the air. A red cowboy boot hung parallel to the ground, then I realized the leg that attached to the cowboy boot was clothed in skin tight, was that... black leather?
My friend saw this as well, and we ignored our other friend who was telling a story about being bitten by a black widow and having to be airlifted out of the wilderness. We watched the leather pants, cowboy boot wearing human step from the van.
A shirtless man in his twenties appeared. He was indeed wearing skin tight leather, or were they pleather, leggings and red boots. His hair was glorious–to his shoulders, blowdried and styled to take up as much volume as physically possible. His hair dominated the entire yard. He sashayed, hair immovable, his skin porcelain white, through the dusty yard and into the bar.
"Did hairband just arrive from 1982?" we asked each other.
Three more men with luscious hair, hair that brushed their nipples, hair full of product and bleach also stepped from the van. All of them wore skin tight pleather pants. One put on a belt with chains, another put on a black leather vest, the vest cut to never cover his nipples.
We were surrounded by man nipples and hair. So much hair.
They proceeded to set up the stage, their energy combating the torpid, conservative, Sunday energy that had permeated the town.
We watched intently. They were the most interesting thing I'd seen all day.
"I sort of feel like I'm back in California," I said, missing the weirdness of the state.
With a yell, one of the hairband members kicked shut the van's back door. I saw the van's plate.
California.
Progress marches on. Or is that metal bands like mom jeans just resurface every few decades? Or is it that perfectly, blowdried hair cannot, no matter your politics, your timezone, or century, ever be fully contained?