Being a performer and all around eccentric artsy type, I’ve had many different hair styles over the years. My family couldn’t keep up with the fact that my hair grew like weeds when I was in my formative years, and we really couldn’t afford barbers, so my elementary hair was unkempt. I was made fun of a lot for it, but fuck those guys! I learned early on, not to care about anything I could do nothing about.
I went through that same phase everyone does when parents decide how you cut your hair and how you dress -up through junior high. When I was a bit older I started trying to fit in with other people. I still had to wear the damned light colors my parents forced upon me, but I thought I could finally change my hair a bit. I knew my parents would never allow me to wear a Death-hawk, not that they would let me grow my hair out too much back then, so I had to pick something I thought they could deal with. I liked a lot of the music from Tommy Boy Records, aside from the post punk that really spoke to me, so I wanted lines shaved on the side of my head. The barber we saw wouldn’t do it. So, when I got home, I took my dad’s Bic and shaved them myself. At this point my parents whipped the hell out of me, grabbed that same razor and shaved my entire head bald. Those asshole bastards ruined my Sophomore year!
Then, I don’t know what happened. Something suddenly snapped and made me realize I was never meant to fit in. I was 19 and rode into the city with some new friends. There was this moment when I had a choice to return home to my abusive oppressors or stay homeless on the streets in Berkeley. Without much thought I gave up my family, my job, my friends and a home in favor of freedom. I could dress how I wanted. And all I now had was me to worry about. I was fine with that.
Since kindergarten I was told I “can’t wear all black” because it made me look like a “Satanic Priest.” Think about that. A zealous Jehovah’s Witness mother and a non-practicing, but very soap boxish, Roman Catholic step dad, toting his giant Parochial School Bible like a cat gun, told a 7 year old me not to wear all black to kindergarten because I resembled a “Satanic” fucking “Priest.”
To my young mind, regarding the clothes I wanted to wear, the only difference between my dress and that of an actual Priest was a little white square jutting from the center of a half-collar. That’s it? I was also very news savvy at that young age. Priests were all over the news for molesting children in droves. This made me reasonably assume that the poles of right vs wrong have shifted. God was the devil, religion was now evil and Lucifer was now Good. So, when I was living on the street and got to choose my own clothes I may as well have screamed HAIL SATAN!!!! -because I really gave no fucks what my parents thought as I laced up my tall black combat boots. I wore all the black I wanted. I also grew my hair out. Death-Hawk, here I come!!!
I’ve gone through many styles, whatever my mood dictates. Sometimes my looks are for entertainment purposes; often it’s just for an outfit or specific persona I have in mind. Sometimes, I just let my hairstylist, the beautiful and talented Candice Darling, do whatever the hell she wants! I’m always open to new ideas and states of being.
What follows are a series of pics, in semi-chronological order, depicting my various hair and stylistic journeys: