Long hair was in; and dyeing this long hair with Brontosaurus Blue or Roc-a-dile Red Kool-Aid was too. Piercing every anatomical part of the human body was the thing, and loud, guitar-driven music was the in thing to listen to. This was the time of alternative music. But I did not dye my hair with a children's sugar drink nor did I get my nose or bellybutton pierced; all I did was grow my hair long. This is when World War III erupted in the Suchotliff house.

"Get your hair cut," my mother urges me.

"No, I spent too long growing this hair, and I like it," I reply.

"It looks ugly. Your hair is dead; there's no shine," my mom tells me like she is some beauty expert for Vidal Sassoon.

"I don't care. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into growing this hair," I say in my hair's defense.

"Yes, but I still think you should cut it," she says in return.

"I won't do it; I can't do it; this is my hair," I tell her, with annoyance.

"Why do you want your hair so long?" she says, puzzled.

"I just do, okay?" is all I can think of.

"I bet the girls hate it," her tone like I was going to say right there, "Okay, let's cut it, because girls hate it."

"Mom," I tell her, "go away."

The same routine occurred every time I would take off my purple and gold, no-one-ever-heard-of University of Northern Iowa hat. When the hat came off I allowed my lengthy, flowing, brownish blond locks to fall in front of my mother's face. Seeing my long hair made my mother begin another battle in this never-ending war. My mother and I had this discussion about me cutting my hair so often that I began to believe that I had hair like Rapunzel's, long and perfect; while my mother believed I had hair like David Letterman, ugly and scrappy-looking. Even though I liked the idea of being a beautiful blond, I finally saw the light, and agreed with my mother. Thus signing a truce between my mother and me ended the countless hours of discussing every aspect of my hair.

My revelation occurred on a Sunday night before the expected hair discussions on Monday. The revelation appeared to me while I was studying in my bedroom filled with posters of people glorifying long hair. Amidst the posters of Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder, I sat in my swivel chair, ready to study logarithms for my math midterm. As I glanced at my red math notebook, one of my locks of hair fell in front of my face. I gently pushed it back into place behind my left ear but at the same time a different lock fell from the right ear. When I finished studying, I was all ready to take a John Deere green and yellow lawnmower through my hair. My hair had been so annoying (due to the fact that I pushed it back into place countless times) that it caused me to make the hardest decision in my life.

The next morning I painfully told my mom in a whisper, "See if Lina has an opening today."

"What? You're going to cut your hair!" my mother screamed as if she won the $33 million lottery.

"Yes," I said faintly.

My mother did not hear me though, she was too busy dialing Sal's Barber Shop to get a 12: 15 appointment. I went to school, knowing that these six hours would be my last with my hair. I cherished each moment. During my midterms, I look uped from my Iowa Testing Scan-Tron sheet and stroked my brownish-blond hair.

As the so-called bell sounded, notifying all students to put down their pens and stop taking the test, I knew it was the dawning of the end of my hair. As I walked slowly through the overcrowded hallway, the good times that my hair and I spent together flashed before me: the time we moshed together at the Candlebox concert and the time we imitated Cousin It from the Addams Family. As I walked out through the main entrance, I saw my mother waiting in her car. As I opened the door and went to sit, we were already speeding out of the parking lot, off to the site of the execution of my hair, Sal's Barber Shop. The entire ride I said nothing. It was a solemn time for me and my hair. I did not have to say a word to my hair; it knew I had to do the unthinkable and it understood.

"Hello, Jay," said Lina.

"Come sit in the chair," she instructed.

As Lina put a white collar around my neck and the gigantic blue bib on me, I became dizzy.

"What do you want done?" she asked.

"Whatever you think would look best."

Lina, the executioner, picked up the scissors and cut off a lock of hair. As I saw this lock fall to the ground, I blanked out. All I remember is the scissors laughing at me with their two metallic teeth and hair falling left and right to the ground.

When I became conscious, I stared into the mirror. Something was wrong: in front of me was Paul McCartney, not me. I was dreaming, I told myself. I pinched myself and looked again, I wasn't dreaming: I was the fifth Beatle.

"I like it. It looks really nice. It makes you look so handsome," said my mother.

I did not say a word. I was still in shock at becoming a member of a 1960's rock band from Liverpool, England. We walked to the car, my mom smiling.

"Mom," I said, "I hate my haircut."

"You shouldn't. You look very handsome! she said.

"Mom, easy for you to say, you like the Beatles." c