I hear a lot of people talking about how punk is dead. Well, guess what? It’s not dead — it’s just aging poorly. Especially in my case. But the fact of the matter is that I don’t care how bald my head is nowadays, I will continue to make the worst possible choices with the hair I have left.
I used to have liberty spikes that could pierce the moon, but due to poor genetics — or the fact my body doesn’t regulate testosterone properly — I am stuck having to spike the bright blue hair on the sides of my head. Sure, it makes phone calls nearly impossible and I look like a deep sea fish, but this haircut kills fascists.
I see all these young kids wasting their follicles by getting these “gentlemen” cuts. Maybe that flies at the coffee shop, but in the squat I call home it will get you laughed at, Mr. Adolf Hipster. Come to think of it, the squat is really the only place people don’t laugh at me. Rabbit, Chumbo, and Big Jeff support me in my terrible hair choices. Those are real friends. Those friends kill fascists.
The first time I dyed and spiked my hair was the day my life finally started. My parents finally took notice of me as an individual. My dad would make jokes and say I looked like a hedgehog and a Jackson Pollack painting had a baby. As I entered my twenties, my hairline started to recede, but my passion for bad hair choices only grew.
Mohawks gave way to bi-hawks (like two mohawks, but off to the side). I loved that bi-hawk look, but soon I had to adapt again. Now I have a horseshoe of hair that most respectable people shave away. I would rather die than be one of those sheeple. I spike my horseshoe proudly. I make it hard for people to be in elevators with me. I make a crowded bus even less enjoyable. I will make bad hair choices until the very end.
— Dirty Larry (age 63)