The Writer's Pen

attended a Parochial school located about a mile away from our farm. I graduated from eighth grade in 1963, and had not yet adjusted to high school when President John F. Kennedy was shot. The world was turned upside down, and I didn’t know what to do about it.

High school was a struggle for me. I had to work hard to get good grades, especially in math and science classes. Sports were just as difficult for me, partly because we didn’t have organized sports in Parochial school, and partly because I wasn’t especially coordinated.

I still didn’t know what to do about the problems in the world after high school. Should I go to college, enlist in the Army or stay home and become a farmer? My compromise was to live at home, but attend Worthington Junior College. There was no dress code or haircut rule in this new environment. I still had to work hard to get good grades, but at least I could wear blue jeans and long hair.

My world became more complicated in January of 1968. All student deferments were dropped and everyone over age 18 had to be processed for military service. I was classified 1-A and would have been drafted immediately, except that every birthdate was pulled out of a hat and assigned a number between 1 and 365. My number was 327. By the end of the year, when my number had not been called, my hair had grown over my collar.

After a couple of frustrating years in college, I continued to live at home until I could figure out what to do with myself. I worked on a construction crew during the week and helped around the farm on weekends. By now I had grown a mustache to complement my long hair. It drove my parents crazy!

One Saturday morning I was helping with chores. My dad came up to me, handed me some money and told me to go to town to get a haircut. When I objected, he said, “If the barber doesn’t cut your hair, I will!” I knew by the tone of his voice that I’d better get a haircut.

When I got to the barbershop, the place was empty. I didn’t like the smile on the barber’s face when he saw me walk in.

“What can I do for you, young man?” he asked.

“Just a trim,” I said.

“If you let me trim it all off, I’ll do it for nothing,” he laughed.

Despite my nervousness, the haircut wasn’t too bad. He trimmed about an inch of split ends and curls off, and evened up my mustache. When I got home, however, my dad wasn’t pleased.

“Sure don’t get much for your money these days,” he grumbled.

In November of 1971, I met a pretty brunette that melted my heart with her smile. We dated for several months, and decided to get married in October of 1972. We made plans to move to Spirit Lake, where my fiancé, Rita, had a job as a bookkeeper. She had been commuting from Ocheyedan for a few months and I normally had to commute for my construction job, so moving 25 miles away was no big deal. We decided that I would look for employment in one of the factories or lumber yards in the area. Plans were coming together with one exception – I was going to have to find a new barber.

A few weeks before our wedding, we attended a party given for my brother, Bruce, who was about to leave for the Army. Liquor flowed freely and the conversation was lively. One person found it offensive that I had long hair, and my younger brother was about to get all of his cut off. Another person told me I looked terrible, and the only way to be a real man would be to cut my hair. “After all,” he said, “you have responsibilities now.”

My hair continued to grow, even after a few embarrassing situations that could have been avoided by a trip to the barber. One situation was my grandfather’s funeral that took place three days before my wedding. Grandpa Hembd would have understood, though other family members did not. Sometime later I met some coworkers for a beer at the local VFW. My coworkers were OK with long hair, but the local veterans were not and let us know it. Probably my most frustrating experience was trying to cross the border into Canada on a fishing trip. All of my papers, luggage and fishing equipment were searched. The border guards were looking for a reason to send me back where I came from.

I started going to a beautician in Spirit Lake. Rita always said that Shelley could make me do anything. When she asked what I wanted done, I’d say, “Trim the gray off, please.”

“How about the mustache?” she would ask. “I’ll cut it off for nothing.” Once, in a weak moment, I nodded. My mustache of 31 years was gone.

When I look at old pictures, I see a longhaired young man uncertain about the world around him. This young man didn’t appear to have any plans to improve that world. When I look in the mirror, I see a gray-haired old man with the same uncertainties. The main difference is that this old man has his hair trimmed every five weeks.

Roger Brockshus is retired and lives in Spirit Lake. Besides writing, he keeps himself busy with a small lawn business and also volunteers in his church and community. Roger and his wife, Rita, enjoy spending whatever time they can with their children and grandchildren.