I recently grew out my mohawk, which I'd had for so long that even my relatives had forgotten it was weird. They would get into arguments with each other over whether it looked better purple or pink.
The decision to lose it came when I took a trip to London. I knew I'd do anything to get back there. Even (gulp!) get a job. Even (double gulp!!) make my hair look boring. So I grew out my hair and got a job, a great job where I get paid to play with children all day.
But I'm terrified. I wake up sweating from nightmares, in which hair has suddenly sprouted from the sides of my head. And, when I reach up to feel my scalp and reassure myself, IT'S ALL TRUE.
When I was a teenager, a group of punk rockers took me under their wing. They were brilliant, amazing, the epitome of cool, and they had beautiful, arching, colorful mohawks. Then, one by one, they grew out their mohawks and now I can't talk to them without retching, and then sitting in my dark closet afterwards, telling myself that deprogrammers charge a very high hourly rate.
So I've always considered the loss of a mohawk as a sign of aging and decay. But at least now I can trick normal guys into thinking I'm a nice girl, so they fall asleep afterwards and I can steal their wallets. They always have more on them than those mohawked motherfuckers
by Sarah McKinley Oakes