According to my friend Bobo Joe Alpy, my tonsorial skill set is limited by the fact that I have curly hair. “You could cut that shit with a Flowbee hair trimmer and nobody could tell if it’s fucked up,” he has said to me concerning this subject. Which, in retrospect, is probably a compliment given Bobo’s leanings towards cutting criticism, and my own bad hair.
This is what I am doing on this horrible night. The weather has turned to humid, and this is bad for my hair. I pick up the scissors before eyeballing an electric razor and think twice about this very bad idea. Intrepidly, I chop, always keeping Bobo’s logic in mind, and often prove him wrong.
Interspersed with this activity, I have noticed that the movie Footloose is on television for a second time today. Contained in this cinematic masterpiece is a fantastic scene where John Lithgow’s character, the Draconian fun-squashing preacher, shows by an ice cream joint where the local kids are hanging out. A ‘boombox’ cranks out ridiculous music as this character’s bony finger makes its way to the ‘stop play’ function, which brings the revelry to an abrupt halt.
This is an amazing scene for a myriad of reasons, including though not limited to showcasing some very insane dance moves and fashion choices gone awry. But beyond these things I think that the filmmakers were trying to convey that there will always be youthful rebellion, in the form of various base and meaningless manifestations. And it is the feeling which remains the same but the symbols which change.
Most of which suck, bad, and are in fact, as Lithgow was trying to demonstrate, not worth dancing to. I understand his critique of the music and dance moves, I guess. But it’s the haircuts, I discover, which make you envious, in the end.
