Owen looked at his dreadlocks in the reflection of the train's window. They were long and thick and golden. It had taken him nearly a year to get them just right. They hit his shoulders and sprouted from his head in all directions. He was proud of his hair--it spoke for him. One time, on too much acid, he even thought they spoke to him. The young girls at school looked at him with admiration. Sometimes they flirted with him. He was careful about flirting back--being a teacher--but he was flattered.
As a boy, they called him Brillo. Other kids had sleek, blond locks. The little boys had bowl cuts and the girls had ponytails and braids. He had dense, matted tendrils. They taunted him with pictures of Medusa and Don King. One of the fifth grade bullies, Devon, used to pull his hair during study hall. It became a popular game--who could get a bit of Owen's hair. Around March, his mom was tired of hearing about his daily traumas and had the barber lop off nearly everything, down to a quarter inch. It didn't help, the kids just called him baldie.
In junior high, he discovered Bone Strait, a thick, yellow pomade that came in a large plastic jar with a picture of a young black woman with shiny, straight hair on it. It cost $1.59. Slinking up to the pharmacy counter, Owen felt perspiration dripping down his forehead. He started questioning his masculinity, his strength, his inability to fit in. He was convinced he'd die a virgin. He bought three jars and hid them in his closet along with a stack of girlie magazines and some ancient condoms. Right before bed, he crept into the bathroom, scooped out a bit of the hair "elixir" and spread it on his head. It looked almost good enough to eat, like lemon jam. Even with half a jar of the pomade plastered to his head, Owen still didn't look like he thought he should. The next day at school, as he sat taken a spelling quiz, chunks of his coarse, blond hair started falling out, landing obtrusively on his desk. This, of course, brought horror and amusement to the other children and he was sent to the nurses office for observation.
After college, Owen enlisted in the Peace Corps. He traveled to Equador and Togo. He worked in the villages of Thailand and the fields of Nepal. Most of the time, he shaved his hair off because it was too damn hot to bother with sweaty hair or shampoo. He had sworn off the modern conveniences of his youth. He wore the same jeans for weeks and didn't care if he smelled. He was doing God's work, bringing relief to malnourished children and underdeveloped nations that didn't have the luxury of clean water let alone mousse or hairspray.
Then in South America he met Alice, another Peace Corps volunteer, and they decided to return to America. After five years in New York, he was hardened and urbane. He had the right clothes. The Sketcher shoes and the Stussy-wear. He got a job with a prestigious private school on the Upper West Side where the kids loved him and thought he was cool--mostly because of his hair. It had been a hassle getting the school board off his back, but he had persevered. Hey, he told them, I've suffered a lot for my hair, and if it goes, I go. They gave in. On the subway each morning he stood crammed amongst conservatively dressed Wall Street businessmen and SoHo clothes designers. Occasionally he thought he felt a tug from one of his fellow passengers-- perhaps someone with a bob or a crew cut curious to know what those incredibly dreads felt like. They're damn fine, he thought, damn fine.