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Show How many kids get to give Dad a pony tail? the editor's column By MARC HADDOCK 'tf Just a few weeks ago we celebrated cele-brated the 20th anniversary of the first landing of men on the moon. 1 remember where I was at the exact moment - in fact I wrote about it. This week, we are celebrating the 20th anniversary of Woodstock. I can't remember where I was then because, frankly, Woodstock was only a big deal to those who were there. At least, it was at the time. The first I heard about this historic his-toric love feast was when I was watching the Dick Cavett show and Crosby, Stills and Nash dropped off to talk to Dick on the way home from Woodstock. I had never heard of the Crosby, Stills or Nash, although I had listened lis-tened to them in previous musical incarnations as members of varying vary-ing rock and roll bands, such as Buffalo Springfield, the Hollies and the Byrds. They were pretty good. But what was this Woodstock stuff we were hearing about? At the time, I was preparing for my first year in college at Idaho State University - the school we referred to as Baby Berkeley. It was the season of student protest, and ISU had a reputation for liberal lib-eral activism. It was also close to home and well for wearing a Nehru jacket to school one day. So letting my curly locks get longer and curlier was a daring statement for a shy kid like me, even though I had graduated from high school and could no longer be humiliated by Mr. Phillips, the principal (we called him the cat), for letting my hair cover the tops of my ears. My folks were a little disturbed. But hey, if an 18-year-old kid can't get his folks upset now and then, what's the point of it all? That's as close as I ever came to the spirit of Woodstock in those early days. After my first year at college, there was an LDS mission and four years at BYU, where my hair was once again a major concern of people who one would think had more important things to worry about. After graduation, it didn't matter mat-ter any more. It was 1976, and principals and college presidents were letting their hair cover the tops of their ears. Woodstock was a rerun; Dylan had moved from country coun-try music to tunes about born-again Christians, and I had moved to a town even smaller than Montpe-lier Montpe-lier Castle Dale. . - ' So I adopted a pretty lax attitude atti-tude about hair cuts. I get them every three months or so, whether I need them or not. Right now I probably need one, but the person who cuts my hair has changed styling shops and I don't know where she is working. (Pam, where are you?) In the meantime, my head is getting shaggier and shaggier, and as we talk about Woodstock, I'm starting to look like I just came from there. This morning, I had reached my . limit. So I asked my daughter (who works on everyone's hair) for some help. "Erin," I said. "Can you fix my hair in a pony tail." Laughter rang through the house. "Daddy wants a pony tail," Adri-enne Adri-enne snickered to her little sisters. "Just think," I persuaded my daughter, "you'll be the only one of your friends who ever fixed her dad's hair in a pony tail." "I'm not sure I want to be that," was the reply. So I kept coaxing. "Honest, Erin. I read in a newspaper news-paper just "a few weeks ago that pony tails are becomingpopular for men." "For old men?" she replied. After all, Woodstock was 20 years ago this week. Maybe it's time to get a haircut. was my father's and brother's aim a mater. Besides, ISU had offered me a scholarship. About the time I heard about Woodstock, my hair was starting to get longish. These were the days when longhair was associated with rebellion, drugs, hippies and free love. If we had any of these things in Montpelier, I certainly didn't know where to find them. I graduated from high school in the dying days of strict dress and grooming codes, and was publicly chastened by a teacher I didn't know |