Now I was a perfect (teen)age for the late 80’s/early 90’s alternative rock scene, listening to Pixies, Nirvana, Jane’s Addiction and many others. Given this, it was obvious that I would have to express my individuality through the medium of ripped jeans, thrift shop jackets and having long hair.
The latter aspect of this unique sartorial splendour set me at odds with school regulations which stipulated that boys’ hair must be (from memory) ‘neat, tidy and off the collar at all times.’
Various ways and means were employed by myself and others to circumvent this particular diktat including a cornucopia of undercuts, back combing and Andy Garcia-esque applications of styling product. Most though ultimately settled upon ensuring a 1cm hair to collar gap all around.
Despite these sterling efforts there was no guarantee of safety from one particular textbook totalitarian Rod(zilla), the token teaching Rottweiler and upholder of the law. And whilst his old school values crusade was just another presumed example of his aggressive over-compensation for deeply repressed and traumatic conflicts of the past; my was he effective.
Observing that fighting on the front line was no way to win a war I went for hearts and minds. Surely a well presented, thoughtfully made argument and ensuing debate could open the doors of change.
And so it was to the school newspaper where I was a sort of part-time contributor (read ‘lazy and unreliable hack’). I subsequently crafted an impassioned but logical plea for review citing the inequality, sexism and inconsistency inherent in the current regulations. It escaped the worst of the editor’s review and even evaded the designated teaching staff censor to go to press.
Whilst the issue was trivial in the grander scheme of things, it was a direct challenge to the rules and the system and as it hit the campus, classroom and teachers’ lounge, it achieved the first aim of getting people talking.
Feedback was positive from the inmates and a strong number of the teaching staff commended it, even to the point agreeing with the central construct.
So this was it. Cross party consensus. Dialogue would ensue. The weight of opinion could break through. Decisions would be made and rules changed. Follicles would run free. A hair-band revolution!
Only nothing happened.
First it was silence from the ivory tower. Then it was quietly made clear that no discussion would ensue; rules were rules; keep onside or pay the price.
Rodzilla continued his holy war.
The following term I dyed mine red. After being told I would be suspended were it to stay red, I shaved it all off, bald. I was suspended.
I gained further punishment the term after that. Admittedly this time for applying a vomit finish to a teacher’s shoes after an ill-advised afternoon vodka run. But still…
The moral? Who knows? Pick one of these:
The house always wins? Don’t try if you can’t succeed? Being difficult can be fun? Middle-class teenage white boys have rubbish hair and should be stopped at all costs?
One of those should do it.
The latter aspect of this unique sartorial splendour set me at odds with school regulations which stipulated that boys’ hair must be (from memory) ‘neat, tidy and off the collar at all times.’
Various ways and means were employed by myself and others to circumvent this particular diktat including a cornucopia of undercuts, back combing and Andy Garcia-esque applications of styling product. Most though ultimately settled upon ensuring a 1cm hair to collar gap all around.
Despite these sterling efforts there was no guarantee of safety from one particular textbook totalitarian Rod(zilla), the token teaching Rottweiler and upholder of the law. And whilst his old school values crusade was just another presumed example of his aggressive over-compensation for deeply repressed and traumatic conflicts of the past; my was he effective.
Seeing that fighting on the front line was no way to win a war I went for hearts and minds. Surely a well presented, thoughtfully made argument and ensuing debate could open the doors of change.
And so it was to the school newspaper where I was a sort of part-time contributor (read ‘lazy and unreliable hack’). I subsequently crafted an impassioned but logical plea for review citing the inequality, sexism and inconsistency inherent in the current regulations. It escaped the worst of the editor’s review and even the designated teaching staff censor to go to press.
Whilst the issue was trivial in the grander scheme of things, it was a direct challenge to the rules and the system and as it hit the campus, classroom and teachers’ lounge, it achieved the first aim of getting people talking.
Feedback was positive from the inmates and a strong number of the teaching staff commended it, even to the point agreeing with the central construct.
So this was it. Cross party consensus. Dialogue would ensue. The weight of opinion could break through. Decisions would be made and rules changed. Follicles would run free. A hair-band revolution!
Only nothing happened.
First it was silence from the ivory tower. Then it was quietly made clear that no discussion would ensue. Rules were rules. Keep onside or pay the price. Rodzilla continued his holy war.
The following term I dyed mine red. After being told I would be suspended were it to stay red, I shaved it all off, bald. I was suspended.
I gained further punishment the term after that. Admittedly this time for applying a vomit finish to a teacher’s shoes after an ill-advised afternoon vodka run. But still…
The moral? Who knows? Pick one of these:
The house always wins? Don’t try if you can’t succeed? Being difficult can be fun? Middle-class teenage white boys have rubbish hair and should be stopped at all costs?
One of those should do it.
