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“Here, go get a haircut,” said my father as he handed me a ten dollar bill – the cigarette between his lips bouncing like a frenetic baton. “You can keep what’s left over.” He headed out to work.

I was 11. Before any of my friends celebrated their ascension into manhood, before any of them had a bar-mitzvah, or endured a Mayan rite of passage, I would get to decide the fate of my coif.

Up until this moment, the only control I had over my hairstyle was avoiding my grandmother, and her erratic shears, for as long as humanly possible. She would corner me eventually. The next day I would show up at school looking like I got ambushed by a roving band of clippers and a cereal bowl.

Excited, I went to a salon down the street with a copy of Starlog magazine in my hands. I hopped onto a chair and showed the stylist a picture of Han Solo, “Can you cut my hair like that, please?”

She smiled and said, “Sure.”

She was confident and I was happy. She sprayed my hair with water and started to work her magic. Her hands were steady, sure, deliberate. Regardless of what was going on around her, she kept her focus on what she was doing. She was a professional.

I would be the envy of all my classmates, Julie would finally pay attention to me during recess, my parents would praise my decision-making prowess.

Would cash, and my own discretion, finally supplant the Captain Caveman lunchbox? Would I finally be allowed to ride my bike beyond the confines of our building’s parking lot?

With brimming overconfidence, I dared to hope for a back-to-school wardrobe of my own design – landfall from the sea of corduroy and polyester.  My mind was swimming with portent. I saw only possibility… and not the progress of my hair-maiden.

“All done,” she said.

I looked up with anticipation. But Han Solo was nowhere to be found. Instead, two baby porcupines were wrestling on top of my head. The one on the right was winning.

What happened to my hair? How had she managed to detonate it and turn it into a pencil-lead bouquet?

“That’ll be five dollars, young man.”

“It doesn’t look like the picture,” I said sheepishly.

As more of the sprayed water evaporated, the porcupine on the left began making a comeback.

“Oh, well, we just need a little gel.” She rubbed her hands together and went to work.

I smelled like cough syrup and suntan lotion. My hair looked like two porcupines wrestling – in jello.

“See, all better.”

I paid at the register.

“Don’t forget your magazine.”

“Thank you.”

I caught a glance of my hideousness in every shop window during the long walk home. There would be no more choosing, no more mastery of fate, no Han Solo. There would only be a lifetime of exploded graphite and wrestling porcupines.

Then suddenly, as I turned the corner, Burger King appeared. Like Camelot in the distance it radiated hope and promise. I reached into my pocket and fished out the leftover five – I hadn’t given up a tip at the salon. I didn’t know I had to.

No, Captain Caveman wasn’t going anywhere. There would be no end to the ridicule tomorrow, there was no land in sight from the corduroy sea, but tonight, tonight, there would at least be bacon double-cheeseburgers and fries.