I can only imagine the emotionally charged confrontation in which some 18-year-old girl confronts her family with her “choice” to instill a nest of dreads upon her head. The grandmother, in the twilight of her life, walks over to the mantle, picks up a picture of her holding this same girl as a baby 17 years ago, and begins a bawling spiral to the floor.
Once she is grounded upon the family’s oriental rug, her Rastafarian granddaughter runs upstairs in a screaming fit, “You guys just don’t understand me! I’m going to a place where I can be accepted for who I am! I am a Jamaican from my scalp up. I can’t help it. God, I mean Jah, or Krishna? Whatever! Someone made me, and if I don’t have feces pipes coming out of my head, then I am not me.”
Bob Marley, reincarnated in a white girl, retreats to her new computer and listens to a “Perpetual Grove” bootleg that butchers the minor pentatonic scale. That’s no problem though, because anybody that listens to “Perpetual Groove” does not know what a pentatonic scale is.
She is sent into a trance remembering the previous weekend. Panic Friday night, followed by P-Groove on Saturday.
There was no chance of making school on Monday, because the Drive by Truckers were in town Sunday night. That weekend was Dank, Heady and Kynd all rolled into one mushroom goo-ball.
If only Grandma could understand the meaning behind these beautiful celebrations, maybe she would understand the enriched purpose behind having octopus hair. You arrogant fool.
What right, may I ask, do you have to make your grandmother cry? I know if my sweet and wonderful grandmother ever cried due to a “choice” I made, I would not be able to live with myself. She is responsible for my very existence, and she hooks me up with one hell of a fried egg sandwich on this amazing thin white bread, lightly toasted. I don’t go to that much trouble for my own breakfast.
I am highly in favor of one’s personal responsibility over their looks, for one’s looks are their automatic first impression upon anybody wandering by.
I also came to Asheville hoping to experience an open-minded collection of people who share some of my interests.
I soon realized that this open-mindedness is a façade more visually apparent than a peacock-embroided Mardi Gras mask. It is more mindlessness than anything.
The irony is Herman Hesse’s “Siddhartha” is a staple of the fake hippie bookshelf, and it teaches mindfulness in a way that a third grader could understand.
So, where does this subculture get off drawing attention to itself as the white representation of the Rastafarian culture? Learning the bass line to “Stir It Up” and reading Bob Marley’s biography seems to be the rite of passage.
A close friend of mine lives on an organic farm where he works for food and a spot to lay his tent in the beachside wilderness of Maui.
He has little access to any shower for weeks at a time, yet he still sits down every so often and pulls apart the aspects of his hair that are beginning to clump together.
UNC Asheville dorm dwellers have unlimited access to some amazing water pressure every second of the day. Some people just have to have the dreads though, so they use peanut butter, Vaseline or just plain greasy dirt to accomplish this.
Then they roll and twirl their hair like a valley girl on acid until they have this perfect nest of water moccassins.
There is no doubt the deep souls of these people reflect the need to have tarantula leg hair. I just want to know where in the twisted ladder of the genetic code this occurs. I am a musician, and unfortunately, I frequently encounter this subculture at concerts. They arrive hours early to sell crystals, drugs and glass pipes, which strongly diminish the image of the once noble art of glasswork.
By the end of many of these concerts, looking into the eyes of a “spun” fake hippie is like looking into a dark pit of cold air. Not to generalize, but generally these people have similar hairstyles. Can you guess which style?
I love music, and I study it every chance I get. I also love the outdoors as a product of being an Eagle Scout and an active hobbyist of the woods.
I feel drawn away from the entire scene as those attempting to be unique and diverse solely by the way they appear to take up all of the space with their seizure dancing and bumper stickers.
In summation, there are so many inconsistencies in this fake hippie subculture that I wouldn’t even call it hypocrisy.
That is giving them too much credit. They jump on a bandwagon and ride until the next “dank” Volkswagen bus comes along as a prophet from the summer of love. They act like they are politically active as a front. Don’t fall for it.
Shame on you, specifically, “dread girl” for making your sweet grandmother cry. You are without shame, and coincidentally, you are without pride.
I am sick of hearing about these people who are Asheville’s excuse for diversity. I await the recognition of somebody deserving of a picture in the paper and an accompanying article.
William Walter Locke Mattison
Senior Literature Student
Previous story