Purple Hair and I Didn't Care

Before I moved to London, I had lived my life the only way I knew how, by following the usual route. And although every once in a while a situation confronted me and shouted there was another life out there, I worked hard to ignore it.

Like watching Full Metal Jacket in high school. And watching people going crazy and killing other people and themselves, and yet, I still wanted to join the military and be a fighter in the army. And even as I saw a guy going crazy in the first few months there, exactly like the guy in the movie, only he was let go before he shot himself, I didn't think going crazy was the only sane thing you can do when confronted by insane situations. Instead, I thought the guy cheated us by leaving us behind, and cheated himself for not allowing himself to be a fighter. A great warrior and all that good stuff.

And then I went to England, and everything changed. No one knew me. I was twenty-two-years-old and free for the first time.

But that freedom to push myself and find my individual boundaries came with a price. With no guidance other than watching the mistakes of others, I made some mistakes of my own.

I was so invested in my reinvention, that I decided to let go of my past, as if anyone can.

I didn't return my parents' phone calls. I lost touch with my high school friends. I walked across the street if I heard someone speaking Hebrew. Damn tourists. And here I was, sitting alone with my cappuccino in Old Compton Cafe, watching the people in Soho, but really admiring my own faint reflection, admiring the person I'd become. Everything I thought I knew was a lie. My previous life was a lie. Yes, I'll take another £5 coffee, cheers.

This is just a simple introduction to excuse myself for lack of promised purple hair photos. With no guidance and no ancient set of values, a young man must invent his own philosophy. For example, I thought carrying a camera around would stop me from experiencing life. I don't know where that came from. But five years in London, I didn't take one picture. I have some pictures I took from other people's spare copies, but no... I don't know... no artistic expression of my own experience, if you will. And no picture of me with purple hair. The picture above is probably the closest one I have.

And the picture below is from around that same period, but still, no purple hair. And that's as long as my hair gets in photos, at least the ones I have. It got much longer later. Almost reached my hips before I thought it was getting silly. Then I saw Trainspotting on opening day, and when I left the theater I shaved it all. What's the worst that can happen, I thought? It'll grow again.

Funny thing about hair, it doesn't necessarily do that.

And that's about it. Just a word of caution before you wet your panties over my picture: That's 13 years ago. The hair that did grow back has since fallen, and is now spread on pillows and shower floors all the way from London to Baltimore. I don't wear necklaces anymore. No more earrings. I think my lips are thinner.