DURING THE VIETNAM WAR, THE US ARMY MADE A SPECIFIC PUSH TO RECRUIT MEMBERS OF NATIVE AMERICAN TRIBES TO ACT AS SCOUTS AND TRACKERS DUE TO THEIR TOUGHNESS AND NEAR “SUPERNATURAL” FAMILIARITY TO NAVIGATE TOUGH TERRAINS. After enlistment though, all traces of enhanced abilities seem to disappear completely. US Army investigators interviewed tribe elders and learned it was quite simple: they need to have their hair long and free to allow their battlefield prescience. The powers-

Hair has a power that few things compete with. Clothes are subjective, and within the last few years, every fashion rule is long thrown to the wolves. Go ahead, playboy, wear that animal print top with a cape and red patent leather kicks. No one will care. You get a lousy pompadour, and it’s curtains for your Saturday night “flex.” We’ve all had to talk someone off the ledge over cutting their bangs. Sometimes, the bangs work out, and other times, Kelly is rocking that ball

I still cry at the end of hair when George Burger dies. What? That’s not the “hair” this issue is about? I beg to differ. Is hair not the most basic outward symbol of your appearance given you on God’s green Earth? Does it not trump fashion, cars, or my Versace purse as the first thing you notice? Is hair not a symbol of your social order. Your political stance. Your favorite historical time period. Yes, I’m referring to the recent Beach Revue and the fine reproduction of 2

As a child, my mom would twist small ringlets in my hair. As I sat beside her, she would absentmindedly twirl a lock of my hair around her finger. I found it very calming, but now I understand the closeness we shared during those times were calming and restorative to her, as well. My mom was always quite proud of her hair. It was gorgeous, dark, and thick, with enough curl to give it body and bounce. She did not spend a lot of time on her appearance, but she was careful to k

Imagine for a moment, you are minding your own business, browsing in the airport bookstore. As you quietly turn the pages of a magazine, someone stands next to you and simultaneously asks and touches your hair. It’s me. It happened to me. I quickly leaned my head away from her reaching hand and took a step back. Looking both offended and afraid, she said, “I’m sorry. Your hair is so beautiful and curly, I just wanted to touch it! It’s softer than I thought! Did it take a long

When I was in fourth grade, my mother dyed my brown hair black. She, a redhead, wanted my hair to match my father’s dark hair. The dye turned my hair so black it was purple. My head shimmered like grackle feathers. Though it sounds pretty and daresay trendy now, I was mortified as a 10-year-old. That was the last time I dyed my hair. In middle school, I experienced a brief affinity for neon punk fashion and temporarily colored swaths of my hair in pink and green. Flash forwa