It was 1970.
I was 14 years old and needed help with life. Being the shortest kid in my class was hard enough to handle, but couple that with my inability to excel at
anything athletic, and anyone will understand why I needed help. The eighth grade is ground zero for male insecurity. Everybody knows that
everything matters in the eighth grade– voice, wit, romance, odor, clothes, and especially HAIR.
In 1970 it was a guy’s hair that told his story. The crew cuts and flat tops of the 50’s and 60’s were history, and guys were finally liberated to look like Jesus– or at least like the Beatles. The coolest men on TV sported locks of hair down on their shoulders and plenty of facial hair. Add bell bottom jeans, wide leather belts, and love beads and any guy could possess undisputed
coolness.
Unfortunately, I was a 14 year old shrimp with only a little facial fuzz and very traditional parents who thought long hair was a sign of satanic rebellion. I tried showing Dad multiple pictures of Jesus in my Sunday school quarterly to prove that long hair could be a godly look, but it was of no use. He wouldn’t even let my hair creep over my ears, much less flow across my shoulders. We were able to work out a compromise though. I WAS allowed to wear my hair down on my forehead like Paul McCartney, just so the back was neatly trimmed and the entire ear showed. He didn’t like my “bangs” hovering over my eyes, but it was a compromise he was willing to accommodate– especially when he noticed how many of my friends were actually chasing the Jesus look, while their parents were obviously looking the other way. For me it was just the best I could get, even though I looked like a clean cut guy with love beads and a brown possum resting on my forehead.
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My wife and I recently brought home an old croquet set from her parents’ house in Nashville. She remembers playing croquet with her family in Paraguay when she was a young girl. In fact, they played with that very croquet set with traces of Paraguayan mud still present on the balls and mallets. My children also remembered playing croquet when we visited Peggy’s parents in the summertime, after they retired from their missionary work and moved back to Tennessee. Our girls have vivid and happy memories of those croquet matches with the cousins in the Skinner’s backyard. Grandpa was always the one who set it up. He knew all the rules and took time to oversee every game, making sure all the grandkids played fairly and correctly. It was great fun for all the cousins, and usually ended with Grandma inviting everyone in for cookies and ice cream, or maybe even fresh, cold watermelon.
