The Mad Minstrel

When I was eighteen, I came across an accident on the highway. A Jeep had taken a corner too quickly, on a snow covered mountain pass, and ended up on its roof. I pulled over and ran up to the accident site to see if they needed help.

What they saw… Me at eighteen, dressed in my extra baggy JNCO jeans, wearing my kinky-ring dog collar, sporting some fabulous black nail polish, and expressing my deep love of WAY TOO MUCH eyeliner.

What they couldn’t see… At eighteen I had lived on that pass for years. I knew how to help with every snow related accident under the sun, and as a First Responder I knew we were an hour away from an ambulance and I could help with any medical emergencies they might’ve had.

The man, who was attempting to flip the jeep back over, eyed me up and down and scoffed, “Not from you.” He turned and didn’t give me a second look.

That’s when I stopped wearing baggy jeans and collars.

When I was twenty-five, I had a faux-hawk and was working in a hospital. A baby came into the ER from an outer lying clinic. She needed a small procedure that I had performed hundreds of times. When I walked in the room, her family physician looked me up and down and asked if there was anyone else who could come instead. They went through three people, none of which had any success and all of whom caused unnecessary pain, a delay of care, and put her at further risk because one man couldn’t get over the fact that my hair stuck up in the air.

I grew my hair back out.

Now here I am, thirty-four and facing the same problem again.

I look pretty normal… even still, I was recently told that I don’t project the image my company is going for. I wear the appropriate attire, but I do so while retaining my last bit of individuality in leather jackets, Converse shoes, and sunglasses.

I’m not changing again.

I was born a rock star and raised as an artist and society will just have to get used to it. In fact, I may even shave my head again. Because you know what? Letting my hair stick up and having a love of black doesn’t mean my work will suddenly suck. Hell, a little self-expression may even make it better.

That’s it this week: no lessons, no morals, just me trying to figure out how to regain those bits of myself that I started to give away all these years ago.