Counseling…At Last!

The Bandshell in Campbell Park at Dakota Ave

I was a quiet lad in junior and senior high schools and pretty much still am. I did my level best to avoid interacting with teachers and administrators. (Well, one exception, Robert Callahan, a man of extraordinary talents…he got me through it all. But generally, I was quiet.) Once in awhile, the teenager in me would come out and I’d be sent to visit Mr. Solon, the vice-principal. He and I did not get along and did not see eye-to-eye on many things, especially the dress code.

Think back to Huron in the 60s…remember the dress code?! There was some knee thing with skirts and girls. Boys could not wear jeans and if the pants you were wearing had loops, you had to have a belt. But, that’s not what got me in trouble most of the time, my “teacher flashpoint” was hair. I’d be walking in the hall or sitting in study hall and I’d get a tap on my shoulder and then a finger wag to “come with me.” I’d sit down outside Solon’s office while the “arresting teacher” explained my sin. Solon would call me in and dress me down and then tell me to leave school immediately and get my haircut.

I’d leave his office anxious for the freedom, go to my locker, get my Butch Wax and leave the building. I’d wax the sides of my hair down, spend an hour or so wandering about town and then head back to school. I’d get approving head nods from Solon although I’m sure he knew exactly what he was looking at: me with my shiny, slick backed hair. I was “kicked out” of school once a month or so for hair. I was finally sent to counseling. Tenth grade. What is counseling?

The counselor was Ms Dona Brown. I didn’t know the purpose of a counselor and why I had been sent to her, but, off I went. I liked her, she was polite, personable, and smart. She lived in a cool house opposite the bandshell you can see in the image above. She was good friends with my mom so it was kind of like going to see a neighbor. At first, but things changed. She offered me a piece of candy from the bowl she always had on her desk.

She said, “Lee, I’d like to know why you don’t keep your hair short and why you don’t obey Mr. Solon.” All the episodes of “Perry Mason” I’d watched jumped into my head and went straight to my mouth. Sigh.

I pointed out that my hair was just my hair, it didn’t hurt anyone, it didn’t disrespect anyone and it was the “thing” of the time. Beatles. Hermans Hermits. Yardbirds. And Huron’s own Bird Dogs and the Torres. Long hair and belt less pants should not be an issue. I mean, look at granny dresses.

Granny dresses were a “thing” for a while and a big hit with many of the girls. I pointed out to Ms Brown that walking up and down the stairs with granny dresses was hazardous. Long hair was NOT hazardous. In fact, I told her, I knew of two girls who’d fallen and been hurt. She didn’t buy it and in fact, I remember she pooh poohed my assertion. She continued talking but it was like hearing the adults in a “Peanuts” cartoon. My mind was somewhere else. We parted with a new relationship, teacher and student.

Nothing changed. Ever. I was not a cool kid or an athlete and so the system looked at me as fair game for punishment mostly for long hair and attendance. My hair’s three years in high school was a mix of Vitalis and Butch Wax until the weekend when The Bird Dogs went on the road. Then we’d let our “hair down,” all three inches of it.

I often wonder what my parents thought. I know my dad hated my hair but my sister kept him busy arguing about her stuff so he seldom remembered to give me grief on anything. Did Dona Brown ever talk to them about me? Solon? Anyone? I am pretty sure they did not. When the Bird Dogs were on the road we sometimes had to skip class on Fridays and even a couple of Mondays. My parents didn’t say anything. The school didn’t either. I do remember being told I had many, many hours of unserved detention. I wonder how that works, but the statute of limitations has probably run.