A Most Famous Haircut

A long-haired hippie once told me that ‘hair is power,’  and his was flowing down his back, but then, another new age nut told me that “when you cut off your hair, you cut off your past.” I believe both to be true and so when I need to be resurrected, I get a nice, short haircut.

In 1985, I got a job at the New Yorker Magazine. Yes, The New Yorker Magazine, famous for its Algonquin Round Table of notable writers featuring Dorothy Parker, later, Truman Capote, hilarious cartoons, old master and venerable editor, William Shawn, and the spawn of a thousand books and novels.   After I landed a job there, they had a corporate takeover by Conde Nast, the house of Vogue, Glamour, and Anna Wintour.

It was a bloodbath. Heads rolled out the door faster than in Medieval England.

Then, I got my hair cut. Not just cut, but Mohawked with shaved whitewalls, punked, tufted, and so ‘new wave,’ and so befitting any twenty-something traipsing into New York City every day.

My sister in law, Valerie, had hers done and took me to her hairdresser and neighbor, Rich Demers. We were too cool for words. It was akin to Rihanna ‘s hair style now. And, while punkdom was in full force in 1985 New York, it had not yet invaded corporate America.

When I arrived at the staid New Yorker, a hush fell over the crowd in the elevator, and a silent alarm hissed through the hallways about my new buzz cut. Suddenly, I was summoned to the executive offices upstairs on some trumped up errand, and stood at attention while two or three female executives circled around me like hawks. They were talking about my ‘errand,’ but really, they just wanted to see my hair.

Then, I noticed some new haircuts in the office. Not as extreme as mine, mind you, but short, punked out, and a little spiky.

The next benchmark: I’m walking through Bryant Park and get stopped by a sketch artist. He insists on drawing my picture. I beg off, saying No, No, No, I have ‘no money, leave me alone!’ and can't imagine what he wanted with me, or having to pose for picture. But, I did, at his insistence. It actually turned out pretty well, and even though posing for more than ten minutes was absolute torture, I’m glad I have this record of my hair because it turns out that this was my one and only fifteen minutes of fame.

At the New Yorker, everybody now knows who I am and my boss didn’t like it.
I referred to him as as "Turtlehead."  You see, I really was a punk.

The writers would bypass him to talk to me, because I was a writer, too. They laughed when I said I ran the "Satire Department."  (They really needed one - why should the cartoonists have all the fun?)

Turtlehead was irked to no end, especially when one old writer suggested, much too loudly, that the magazine "should give ME - Turtlehead's job."'

Sure enough, Turtlehead found a way to put my cute punk head on a stick, and it, too,  rolled out the door.

Oh well, I could have transferred to the hen house of Conde Nast’s nine other rags, but I just didn’t have the nine inch fingernails.

I was famous for my hair, and absolutely nothing else. I have yet to recapture that glory. Even though my hair has been the bane of my existence most of my life, one talented hair stylist managed to carve art out the mess, and for one short season, I was a sensation - a short fifteen minute sensation.

To date, this is my only claim to fame. I don't regret my head and punk haircut rolling out of The New Yorker...I didn’t care – I didn’t fit in there after they axed the Old Guard, anyway, but I did write a few novels and scripts. No fortune, no fame, just typing. And, worse, I haven't had a decent haircut since. 

For a most famous haircut, first go to New Jersey, contact
Rich Demers,
Capelli e Mani 224 Mountain Ave, Springfield, NJ. (973-376-9827 )