Hair today, gone tomorrow: The end of the 'poof' mane era

It's funny how much aesthetics matter at this school.

Princeton is supposed to be filled with great minds that are able to grasp complex theories and higher levels of thinking that are on the cutting edge of education and morality. In the same vein, it isn't very counter-logical to think that the students would be able to look past material possessions and physical attributes. Silly little things like clothes and hair should be almost meaningless in our little world ? after all, we all got into the same school and, thus, are all more or less intellectually the same. In a place like Princeton, you'd think that is all that should matter.

Yet it took Gabe ? my barber back in Hawthorne, Calif. ? about 20 minutes to create the new me. Actually, for me it was the old me, the one that had existed all through high school with the faded-shave haircut (a "1" on top down to the razor on the back and sides).

For all the Princeton folk, though, it was the new Al. The flowing semi-afro/more-of-a-poof mane that had accompanied my Californian wardrobe (i.e. no Abercrombie or Fitch, no L.L. Bean backpack) was gone. So were the stares and glances that had become all too familiar in my daily treks through Frist.

As much as we hate to admit it, there is definitely a model Princetonian. This term is used broadly, but basically describes the clean-cut, khaki and t-shirt ? usually something with Princeton on it ? wearing, North Face jacket, Rockport clad men and women who traverse from Frist to McCosh everyday.

Dark colors are the norm, black being a probable favorite on most dreary days. For men, hair should be short and manageable, and for women, it should be long and manageable. A quick trip into Palmer Square should have you all set-up, though Chico's may not have your size all the time and the Gap could very well be out of khakis.

Glance down the page, and you'll see that I didn't fit in too well. The hair had a life of its own, and often caught people off guard with chicken tender half-in and half-out of their mouths. I was careful not to stare back all that often, but I definitely did see the eyes. Not that they were overly vicious or malicious either. In fact, the looks that my hair garnered were more often of the amused and confused genre. Still, they let me know that I was different, and that I had left the comfortable shelter that the Princeton Haircutters provides to oh-so-many people.

Which is not to say that everyone fits the mold. In fact, the model Princetonian probably doesn't even exist. More often than not, I could spend each and every walk to class searching for dyed hair or skateboard shoes and could be successful.

The problem is, I have to actively seek out these people. They are the exception rather than the rule. And, when I hit upon the guy that has a nice set of dreads or the girl that has cropped her hair, their individuality strikes me much as my own probably does others.

And I guess that is okay. Every area of the country has its norms. Back home in Southern California, most Princetonians would get looks just for being ? how do I put this without hurting any feelings ? well, for being a lot more conservative than most. Which, I guess, is okay as well.

Only, it's not okay. I've come to sympathize with the turban-wearing Arabs and Muslims that take the stares as they walk down American streets or 747 aisles. I've come to understand the feeling of the Star of David wearing Jewish citizens of World War II and their Japanese-American equivalents in California. I've come to appreciate the African-American freedom fighters of the 1950s and 1960s. I've come to know first hand the insecurity and timidity that all those that look different have to deal with on a daily basis. And it is in no way okay.

You see, had the stares that my hair once received on this campus been the friendly smiles that I now get, Princeton would have been home a lot quicker. Had the gawks been invitations to sit down and share some chicken tenders, people would have realized that the old Al was exactly the same one as the new Al, minus a few pounds of locks and tresses. That which is "me" was never locked within my physical appearance.

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My thoughts on rock and roll were never expressed by a bad hair day. Not once could you understand my love of Herman Hesse simply by running your hands through my (well washed) mop. It was my hair. It was not me.

And yet, now that it is gone, and people are having to refer to me as something other than "that guy with the fro," it seems as though my floppy and quite "un-model Princetonian" hairstyle was all that I was to many people here. It's just funny how much those aesthetics matter at this school. Actually, it's kind of sad. Alfred Brown is a freshman from Manhattan Beach, Calif and can be reached at aebtwo@princeton.edu. A new picture reflecting his new hair style will accompany Brown's next column.