Today, while chatting to friends on the MOO, I expressed loathing for the 60's and early 70's. One woman seemed surprised. I'm about the same age as her mom, but a tad younger. I reminded her that I was a punk rocker (well, a Seattle nice girl version, but I did my best). The other guy talking with us just about logged off in surprise. Why does this always seem so extraordinary, I wonder? I was exactly the right age for it. Youth must rebel. I fell in love with the raw, cranked style of punk, and the whole lifestyle.
I want to point anyone who can't quite picture this to my Hairstyle Hall of Shame page. I've got photographic evidence of a number of lamentable fashions. I loved having a partly shaved head, though, and I shaved it for six years. I briefly flirted with a crew cut look, but being so buxom and hearty, it made me look like a dyke which got the entirely wrong response I was going for (I don't have anything against a butch look if it works for you; it doesn't, for me).
The punk look suited me just fine, and I clung to it for years. Even now I salivate slightly at the sight of a really good black leather jacket. I've written before about how hard I found it to give up wearing black year round. It's the San Francisco uniform, even today, and I resent living in a climate where that's just not possible. C'est la vie. I'm too old to be a punk, anyway. I can't even be bothered to dress up unless I'm going to a party, and I don't go to many parties. I certainly don't go out to nightclubs any more. The noise! The smoke! The bother! I'm slacking into middle life, thanks very much.
Still, it's nice to be able to surprise people, I guess. I'd rather have a raucous and misspent youth to look back on than wonder why I never broke from the pack. No more crises for me, thanks, I've had my share. Now it's time to sit back, relax, and crank up the Chemical Brothers' latest CD. You kids go on, now.