Mohawk March

Throughout the month of March and into half of April (due to a formal request by my girlfriend), I had a mohawk. Yes, I was that kid. And yes, I was often whistling. Sometimes it was the smurf theme song. Let’s not judge. On a side note, people don’t whistle enough. I say we need to increase the general whistling populace. People are happier when they are whistling.

My mohawk did not arise from a lost bet. I actually wanted it. Mohawk March started my freshman year. In my mind, this was my last chance to do something wild and crazy. To do something that I wouldn’t normally do. After that early spring month, I would be hunting for internships. I would be interviewing and would have to look professional. I would have to start acting like an adult. Well, the freshman mohawk didn’t last very long. Within two weeks, I buzzed my hair so my grandmother couldn’t see it during Easter. To understand this, you have to know that my grandmother is more Catholic than the Pope. Imagine your best Polish Babushka stereotype, take away the shawl, and you’d probably be pretty spot on to my Baba. I would’ve gotten quite a talking to because of my hairstyle choice. It wouldn’t have been pretty. For example, my cousin got a three hour conversation because he put black sharpie on his fingernails. He was in junior high. Just imagine the grandmother wrath that a mohawk would’ve brought down.

I got the mohawk because sometimes you just have to do things you don’t normally do. It’s called living. I was a square in high school. I will freely admit I was pretty boring. I wasn’t necessarily uptight, but I was definitely controlled. I never dyed my hair. I never wore silly clothing. The most uncontrolled appearance I may have had in high school was that time I let my facial hair grow in for about a week. It looked terrible. Its getting better though – both the growth rate of my facial hair and the amount of boring I am. In college, I slowly started to realize the opportunity that was slipping by. So, the first Mohawk March was born that fateful spring of 2005.

So, here I am senior year. I will be hunting for full-time jobs here in the coming months. This is definitely the last time my hair style will ever be my own. From this point on, I will be dealing with costumers, managers and a corporate world that doesn’t appreciate three to four inches hair of sticking straight up. So, I decided to do a senior year mohawk.

I let my hair grow out for roughly six months. I got a decent haircut in November, the sides trimmed in December, and that was it. By the time March rolled around, I had a lot of hair. (Photos courtesy of I even tipped the mohawk blue this time around. I know, I’m very wild. The blue didn’t last very long. It turned from bright blue, to cobalt to some form of odd gray pretty quickly.

The moral of the mohawk is to live life to its fullest. My personality does not fit a mohawk. The mohawk does not fit me. But, sometimes you just have to do those things you wouldn’t normally. I’m not suggesting everyone go out and get a mohawk. That would make you unoriginal. If you are a known party animal, read a book and relax on a Saturday night. If you are a little uptight, do something loose. If you spend too much time at your computer, go skydiving! Or maybe just take up walking. Baby steps. But whatever you do, get out of your comfort zone.

Do you hate parties? Go to one – at least one. Never ran a mile? There is always a first time. Do you dye your hair all the time? Leave it alone once. Afterward, when it is all said and done, you’ll be glad you stretched your definition of yourself that much further. There is absolutely no reason for you to have a simple definition.

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