On Oct. 1, 2000, I embarked upon a quest that taught me more about myself and my limitations than anything else could have. It tested all of my physical and psychological abilities to no end. It was and will always be one of the most defining moments in my life.
I decided to grow an Afro.
The thought had always crossed my mind back at the good ol' all-boys, Catholic military school I knew as St. Thomas Academy. Classmates would always come up to me and say:
'You know Jonesy, you should grow an Afro.'
The problem was that the regulations put forth by the Man prohibited such an endeavor. I kept the 1962 regulation flat top for the first 18 years of my life. But after a month into my freshman year at UW-Madison, I needed something to show my rebellious side. My crazy, sexy side. But seeing that I am, for all intents and purposes, a dork, I just decided to grow some hair. Economically, I figured I'd save a few bucks along the way and scare my parents as well.
For eight months, I endured the shampooing and the conditioning. I went through three bottles of Head and Shoulders, five different hair picks and two daily hours of picking and primping, but I finished out with an illustrious ball of 288 cubic inches of hair on top my head. It was everything I dreamed about and more.
Girls were talking to me without the term 'restraining order' involved in the conversation. People would come up to me and comment on my 'fro. However, it wasn't as satisfying as I thought it would be.
Somehow, those who I have had the longest relationships with saw me in a whole new light. My father started every conversation with, 'How's the hair'? My mother refused to speak to me for a couple of months, and when she did, her first words were, 'Michael, your hair makes you look so ugly.' My friends from STA kept bringing up the 'fro and how it's so different from my old hair.
The Afro became old to me but not to my friends. They always suggested that I should cornrow it, shave it into a mohawk, or cut it into a high top fade like early Fresh Prince style. It got annoying. Soon, the rebellion that I so craved turned into a sideshow. People were more interested in my hair than anything else. I wanted to speak about more intelligent things, like the merits of clog dancing as an Olympic sport, but the conversation always went back to the 'fro.
I decided to cut it in May, and everyone's response was a resounding 'Why'? Now the questions are 'Hey Jonesy, when are you growing your 'fro back'? And I tell ya, if I didn't have a job with sharp knives, I'd just snap.
