Back for one weekend only, by popular demand:
Feeling a tad aged on my birthday, and consumed with fear of becoming a bit too predictable (or maybe it was just how temptingly long I had let my hair grow out?), I decided to re-shave a mohawk last weekend. It was a lovely 48 hours of hair-spray fueled ‘rebellion’: I awed a lot of MBA students with my ‘alternativeness’ at our house party, made Graduate group-photo history (forever to be immortalized on the walls of the Middle Common Room), and, as the picture above reflects, scared my housemate to no end. And I was quickly reminded of how nice it can be to be the center of attention, and how confident I feel when I know everyone has already written me off as a lunatic.
But, alas, as I knew last year when I put Princeton’s ‘mohawk guy’ to rest, it’s a phase of my life whose time has come and gone. I’ve committed myself that any accolades and recognition I earn from this point forward will belong to me alone, and not be shared with my hair. Monday, mohawk guy version 2.0 met a grisly end at the hands of a set of 5.99 Boots’ clippers.
It did seem somewhat fitting, though, to finally bring my dear mohawk full circle, from self-conscious rejection of the status quo to, well, self-referential joke.
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Jukebox: A.F.I. – I Wanna Get A Mohawk, But My Mom Won’t Let Me