If you were on the nightlife scene in Chicago between 2008 and 2013, there's a decent chance you might have spotted or crossed paths with me. I was hard to miss. Still identifying as a cis male (we used the term "straight" back then...usually for anyone other than *other*, if I recall), I spent half an hour every week shaving both sides of my head with a razor around a mohawk spanning three inches in width and averaging between six inches to over a foot tall. Aside from the occasional barber shop or hair salon, I trimmed the 'hawk myself with a pair of dollar store scissors.
I'd spend another half hour styling it straight up and as "natural" as I could get it to look -- a regular occurrence that laid a groove into every other day and had become more ritual than routine. I used excessive amounts of pomade for the first few months, then after a while regular old hair gel (briefly, not so great), egg whites (impressive hold, but messy), and finally settled on sticky styling pastes from a few brands that weren't *too* unaffordable. The pastes, I found, were easy to work with and proved to be surprisingly resilient to pit activity. Even a bit of rain.
My hair (dark, lightly salt-streaked today) was black as night at the time, so this created a somewhat imposing sight. I found bleaching and/or dyeing projected a moderately friendlier appearance; I remember loving red dyes and blues in particular. But any noticeable difference was negligible, as my presence alone was enough to scare the shit out of people. My approachability had plummeted like a rock.
This was an exceptionally difficult time in my life. Having endured the breakup of two intense relationships back-to-back, the opening and closing of my business that cost my life savings and destroyed my confidence, and a puzzling, dazzling, confusing experience in Halloween costume as none other than Joan Jett, this wasn't just a hairstyle. This mohawk changed everything for me. I felt I had acquired -- no, *earned* -- a power I was owed.
I'm 5'5", am Asian (was then, too), and weighed no more than 120 pounds at the time, so the idea of being feared by the average person was new to me. When I realized what it was, I relished and wielded it like a child brandishing their father's handgun they just found. Just without the gleeful, oblivious smile.
This newfound realization of self resulted in (encouraged?) a nasty cocaine addiction and much heavier reliance on alcohol than usual, which was already a problem that didn't need to be amplified. In tandem, the cumulative effect on both was like having a legion of self behind one's back, and the occasional bout of stupid behavior snowballed into an immense purgatorial blur of shit.
I was friendly until I thought someone crossed a line...I immersed myself in the punk scene that previously felt lukewarm and unwelcoming to me, and to my surprise easily met many others with the same worldview (and habits). For a couple of years, I rarely felt alone. I was unhappy and hated everything, but having fiercely loyal and supportive friends around was comforting even if most of them were there primarily for the drugs. Finally, family.
But...I digress. That's a series of tales for other days. This is about the hair, right?
I was fairly active on the bar scene, even non-punk bars and clubs. The mohawk made it impossible to blend in, but conformity and socialization was never my intent; I wanted to be around people but also just wanted them to stay the fuck away. This "luxury" that required little effort on my part provided a sense that I could associate with whomever I wished whenever was convenient for *me*.
The nightlife -- more accurately, the illusion of control it offered -- was one of the few things sustaining and keeping me tethered. It was constant and reliable.
There were outliers, though.
Over the years, I noticed a pattern that fascinated me to no end. Once in a while, one of only three distinct types of people would ever offer an unsolicited comment about my hair: gay men, black women, and drunk assholes. Two of them weren't intimidated at all and sometimes even wanted to chat! Can you guess which ones?
It didn't bother me. Being greeted out of the blue like this was a refreshing break from the norm. Those who did so, even just for a quick compliment, immediately won my attention and respect. I gave no indications that I wanted to be anyone's friend (I don't think I felt deserving, if that makes any sense), but this mattered not.
Gay men and black women. Every time! They weren't afraid but kind, as though they knew...who they were? And were comfortable being themselves? This was new to me, too. In the midst of all the self-hatred and destruction, all the isolation, I would occasionally experience these delightful moments of genuine human connection. They seemed to say, "Hey, I see you."
I think I needed that, though I don't think I truly understood why it felt so important. I still look back on them fondly.
Even the ones who spit venom in the form of colorful and unoriginal metaphors taught me about human nature, though I can't say I was too fond of those people.
Whenever I was harassed by a drunk asshole, I could always count on the guy echoing the same refrain as though following some weird tightass script(ure): he'd launch a derogatory comment with a slur ("fuckin' fag!") behind my back from a wall of friends, and would always backtrack when I turned to confront him.
They'd only harass me when I was alone, and the experience matched that same pattern. Every. Damn. Time. Without fail. With the exception of the angry-scared Cuban guy and his chickenshit friends at Debonair that one time, the drunk asshole behaving like a bag of dicks was *always* a white guy in his 20s or 30s.
Most of the life lessons learned during this period of time wouldn't become clear until years later, but that's how it goes sometimes. When you're ready, you're ready. When it comes to the hair, sporting that mohawk revealed to me that people who say hateful things in public are cowards. Cowards, all of them.
The most glaring difference between then and now is that today these Nazis...Proud Boys, Fascists, Red Pillers, MAGA clowns, KKK, Moms for Liberty, cunts positioning themselves as "leftist" false flags -- whatever your least-favorite group of conservative hateful pieces of shit call themselves -- only discriminate out in the open because they feel entitled and think their shithead friends will back them up.
Isolate them, though, and they still collapse under the weight of their own half-assed hubris bullshit. They don't dare regurgitate hate speech unless it's "safe." That's cowardice.
Those who "bravely" spread hate from behind a keyboard are just as cowardly, so I wouldn't expect either of them -- in-person assholes or internet assholes -- to suddenly grow a pair of balls when it really counts. Hatemongers are cowards, and no expression of flag or "fag" will ever change that.
