When I was young you knew who was special because they had the special haircut and wore the special outfit. Not like now, where sitting in traffic I have to wonder whether the young man bopping down the sidewalk singing inanely to his Walkman is brain-damaged, has severe mental retardation, a mild learning disability or is just a fucking dork. Or is maybe cool, and that’s the way cool guys maybe dress now.
When I was young all the Downs Syndrome sufferers, and the fellow who’d suffered oxygen deprivation during birth and stood outside the supermarket drinking Nehi orange pop all day and reciting the weather report at great speed, and without interruption, and the mental hospital outpatients all went to the local Barber College to get their hair cut.
This I know for a fact because I saw them there when my mother took me in for my haircuts.
So, you knew. When someone struck up a conversation with you in the street, or on the bus, or waiting in line somewhere, one look at his haircut and you knew not to be shocked when he started petting your hair or reciting average daily temperatures day-by-day back into the fifties.
You may recall the look. More or less what you expect Dick Cheney dressed like as a kid, back before he discovered patriotism and his company started bilking the military out of billions of dollars.
Now, my cousin who has Downs is the best-dressed guy in the family.
