“If You Can’t Say Somethin Nice…”

     You ever had a police officer come up to you and inspect your outfit? I have.

     When I was in high school, I looked like a weirdo, and people weren’t afraid to tell me. 

     I used to wear a punk rock jacket covered in studs, spikes, and band patches. I didn’t wear it for anybody else; I wore it because I liked the way it looked.


     Apparently the school cop thought it was dangerous. Watch out, I might throw my jacket at you!

     There used to be a time when skin- tight jeans made you a joke. You couldn’t buy these tight pants, you had to make them.  Skinny jeans are cool now, which is absurd, as they used to be an anti-fashion statement.

     Ever since I was young enough to talk my Mom into bad ideas, I’ve loved dying my hair. It’s been red, black, bleached, orange, and who knows how many shades between.

     One time I had a mohawk that was bleached on the sides and black in the middle. That took a lot of effort. Thanks, Mom!

     Are you getting the picture yet? I. Looked. Weird.

     How do I know I looked weird? It’s not because I wanted to look weird. I didn’t wake up and say, “I want to look like a freak today!” I knew I looked weird because people told me.

     How rude.

     Some people can’t keep their opinions to themselves. Those people are prats.

     Before my rant, I do have to add a disclaimer: I understand that people choose to look the way they do. If I wake up in the morning and put a dead skunk on my head, I have to accept the consequences that follow.

     Now that I’m older, things haven’t changed too much. In fact, age has brought a new playing field: facial hair. Somehow, people can assess personal worth from one's shaving habits.

     I’ve always dressed a little differently. And I’ve always heard how people feel about it. How would you feel if I told you what I thought?

     The comment I’ve heard most (directed towards myself and others) is, “You need to cut your hair.” Says who? Suddenly there’s a restriction on follicle length? Who determines how long is appropriate?

     Besides "appropriate" length, who cares?! What does hair say? Nothing. It’s hair. It grows. Let it do its thing. I know perfectly respectable people with long hair, and I know perfect degenerates with short (appropriate?) hair. 

     Interestingly enough, there's never a standard for what hair should look like; it's all arbitrary. Using measurable standards, please define what's okay and what isn't. You can't. You shouldn't.

     Usually, the hair topic is brought up by people who A) can’t comb their hair, or B) don’t have hair. I don’t know how many guys with a side part and rebellious cowlicks have told me I need a haircut. Get your hackles under control before you approach mine.  

     Clothes are the same way. Usually the people who tell me my clothes are “weird” look like their dead grandmothers dressed them. If you want to wear khakis and button-up shirts till the day you die, good for you. It’s not for me.

     Your clothes say something about you. My clothes and hairstyles are very thought out, and while it may not mean anything per se, it still means something to me. I want to look like me.

     So now the point of all this: who has the gumption to tell people how they should look? Let’s paint a scenario:

     There I stand, weird haircut and out- of- place clothes, minding my own business. Then some dude with dunlapped disease (his belly done lapped over his pants) and a monk’s haircut comes up to me and says, 

     “You need to cut your hair.” 

     What’s always happened in the past is I wonder, “Who are you to decide that for me?” and I ignore the comment. Let’s turn the tables. What if I respond?

     “You need to lose 30 pounds. You drop the weight and I’ll cut my hair.”

     Uh, oh! I think I crossed a line! But who crossed the line first? And why was mine so gosh darn inappropriate? Because what I said was offensive. Hm.

     It is rude to tell somebody they need to change their appearance. My hypothetical response here is just as rude as the initial approach, but in all honesty, it’s more reasonable: being fat is bad for you. Ask a doctor. 

Hair doesn't really do anything.

     There’s an exception to every rule. Your boss can tell you to get a haircut. If you don’t agree, you can find a new job. Your parents can tell you to dress differently. If you don’t like it, you can move out.  

     But if Random Joe ever tells my kids to cut their hair, we’ll put a dead fish in his car.

     Now I could go on for days on this subject. Here’s the short and simple: you keep your opinions about me to yourself, and I’ll return the favor.

     I don’t tell people they need to lose weight. I don’t tell them they need a better deodorant. I keep my opinions to myself because it’s the nice thing to do. Think what you want about me, just don’t say it to my face. If you do, I promise I can come up with something meaner to say.

     Get a haircut.  

 
Thumper's timeless advice.

A Story about a Boy

     23 years ago, a little brat was born in Santa Maria, California. He grew up in an Air Force Family. He would spend his childhood moving around every two years.

     By the time this brat had turned into a ripe hooligan, he’d lived in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah. In that time, he’d discovered about skateboarding and drumming. He’d also established a love for reading and puppies.

     The youngest of five children, he’d had his share of being tickled until he screamed, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!” He also had the advantage of watching four others learn and grow. This taught him how to be a good worker, to not yell back when he was grounded, and to go to college.

     10 years ago, our antagonist discovered punk rock. Soon enough he was dying his hair funny colors and asking the important question, “Why?” He learned the value of dedication as he formed and joined bands. He learned the disappointment of watching friends sell out their values for acceptance.

     Five years ago, this punker graduated high school. He was working as a janitor. He spent his days drumming and plotting out his life goals.

     Four years ago, dyed hair was traded in for a side part. Stud- covered jackets were turned in for suits, and headphones were replaced by scriptures. That’s right; our authority- questioning rude boy (look up the term) became a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter- Day Saints.

     Over the next two years, this inexperienced Mormon boy learned who he wanted to be. He spent every single day, hot or cold, rain or shine, inviting the residents of Colorado to feel pure joy through faith in Jesus Christ. He was given a foundation of faith on which he’d build the rest of his life. He learned how to love in a way he didn’t know existed.

     Two years ago, our now veteran missionary returned to his home in Utah. The next day, he was in the crowd of a punk rock show. He was still the same person as when he left, he was just a better version. He had direction.  

     A little over year and a half ago, this Mormon punk rocker was working at a home for people with special needs. He was going to college. He was drumming. He was right where he wanted to be.

     
     Soon after being right where he wanted to be, he found himself somewhere he didn’t plan on being. He was in love. A stranger that had seen his band play once was now his girlfriend.

     Then she was his fiancé.

     Then she was his wife.

     A year and a half ago, our newlywed drummer transferred schools to experience married life away from home.  He became a residential manager for his job working with adults with developmental disabilities.

     During this phase of being newly married, he was on call 24/7. He hated it. He would have to leave dates with his young bride to take care of client or staff issues. Our happy little family was suddenly over- stressed and unhappy.

     The young man was so dissatisfied that he was willing to work fast food for minimum wage- that was quite a step down from where he’d worked to, but he wanted anything to get him out of his current situation.  Many prayers were said.

     Many prayers were answered.

     A job offer came from an old acquaintance to work in a men’s clothing store. A gamble was taken. Jobs were quit and schools were transferred. Somehow our little family managed to find an apartment and move in two weeks. A mohawk was again traded in for something more professional.

     Now our newly-wed drumming punk rocker found himself in a suit again. He swore he’d never have a job that required a suit and tie. But he also swore to always try his hardest to make life good for him and his family.  

     Ten minutes ago, a young brat that was born in California started a blog.

     Right now you’re reading it.

     My name is Tucker. I’ve been all over the place. I love writing, and this will be your opportunity to see what goes through my mind. I’ll try to make it worth your while.