The cops always fucked with us, but after multiple frisks they found nothing; messing our hair ticked us off, which set the tone for a bad night. All that work destroyed by some ass hat wearing leather gloves who was pissed because we bested him that evening.
Never fuck with the hair unless you want to brawl was our motto. To this day, just reminiscing about it makes me angry.
I used to fear family functions that I had to attend, having to borrow “normal” clothes and shoes that never fit, although, I did always appreciate clean socks. Never ever could I say “no” to my mother. A saint, if there ever was one.
Taming and slicking back a seven-inch fin that took me months to perfect, was usually an ordeal to have it look semi-“normal.” But the style was a focus of conversation with my parents’ friends during whatever event it was that I attended. Oddly, I liked the attention my tattoos would get.
Listening to the Pistols and the anarchy it started in Britain was something we all related to. Here in America, we were looking at interest rates at nineteen percent, inflation off the charts, double-digit unemployment and hostages in Iran were held for over a year. So yeah, we found our outlet: Punk Fucking Rock!!!!