I’ve been seeing them. On my friends. On hairdressers. Apparently they’ve been around in Manhattan for a couple of years, but things take a little longer to arrive in Hawaii. Like the mail.
Perhaps I am dating myself, but I once ran around with a bunch of guys from a Kailua punk band called DDT. They had the “ridiculous” ‘do of the 80s, the Mohawk. Yeah, parents everywhere shook their heads as we lived out our rebellious little lives — well, not all of us made it very far — looking for meaning or just escape. We played our guitars, housed any friends who needed a roof, stayed up all night talking about the political state of Ireland (Yeah, I’m Japanese. But Nick was Irish. And he talked more than I did.), & broke bones downhilling St. Louis Heights. We had no money whatsoever, no mommy & daddy to pay for college, no family business to inherit. To go out & buy a tube of gel was something of a luxury. We applied the egg white on special occasions because we needed the eggs for food.
Money was spent on music. A CD, a new amp, new strings. Once I split the cost of a case of Top Ramen with a girlfriend & we lived on that for an entire month.
Wearing a Mohawk really was to be in Indian in this town. It invited hate from the local kids, & it automatically earned the contempt of the older generation. It was like begging to get beat up or be discriminated against. Yet my friends, guys & girls alike, eagerly bore this stigma. In my Army Surplus-bought jump boots (not those stupid, expensive, poser Doc Martens! Ha ha), cigarette in hand, I lost earrings & bloodied my nose in late-night warehouse mosh pits. I exercised living in the moment; I looked for meaning rather than longevity in every single day, & not all of it was gentle. I never thought I would live to see 30, & I’m a little confused as to how it happened.
But now longevity has made me a cranky old snob. I see a Fauxhawk & I think, “That’s not a ‘hawk. That’s just a bunch of gel.” Or, as my sister put it, “That’s what Ferris Bueller did in the shower.”
I have to try not to judge the players, but it’s so hard. It’s the “ridiculous” hairdo, & now I’m the “older” generation. I remember how unfair the older generation seemed to me when I was 18. But somehow, the Fauxhawk isn’t a modern-day version of a Mohawk to me. It’s watered down & meaningless. There’s no commitment to it; when you shampoo you go right back to looking like the good little private school kid your parents think you are. There’s no stigma attached to it; it’s being plugged by foppish, nightclub-frequenting “kids” in their late 20s.
Maybe I’m just jealous. You kids with your Gucci bags & riceboy cars, who never had to spend a single night not spending money. You can’t even pay the price of a real Mohawk. You put a bunch of gel in your hair & call it a “‘hawk.” So cheap.
Maybe I’m just angry that I survived long enough to be the older generation. But that’s another blog.
In conclusion, fauxhawks piss me off. It’s my own personal opinion, which I am entitled to, so fuck you if you don’t like it. The end. Love, Lauren. =)