I Remember...

Mitchell's Barber Shop. Burnie would say, "Sit right there, young man, you're next." Mr Mitchell had tons of artifacts from the War Between the States. They gave us guys the "white walls" our parents insisted on. In sixth grade, I looked so forward to being a teenager, which for me, either a flat top with fenders, or if my parents would hang a DA, white dress shirt, black slacks, white sox and black penny loafers or pointed toe shoes with a "Cuban" heal. Somehow, during the summer between 6th grade and my first year at GM, which then, was a Junior-Senior High, everything changed. I showed up looking cool with my hair combed back, the sides grown out slightly. But these guys called the Beatles came over from England and supposedly had "long" hair. Huh! When I combed mine down, it was longer than John, Paul, George or Ringo. I show up for the first day of school and the guy across the aisle from me in English class is wearing his hair DOWN. Not exactly bangs. He was wearing colors like a yellow button-down collar shirt, burgundy pants, a weird looking belt, a wallet that protruded from his hip pocket and his penny loafers were cordovan (ox blood) not black. I said, "What are you, Man, trying to be some kind of Beatle?"

His reponse, "I'm a surfer." Good luck with THAT. How many miles is it from the Gulch to the nearest beach? Kept hearing about "OC." What the heck is OC? And what has happened to the world? All of a sudden my style wasn't supposed to be cool.
I was a wannabe "Fonz" in a world of Richie Cunninghams. By the way, "Nerd" was a term we used for a portion of male genitalia in code, so as not to get in trouble with the teachers/librarians.
So I proceed down the hall in all my coolness. I walk down this section of the hall and suddenly I'm being played catch by a bunch of guys with white button up sweaters with big "GM's" on them. "Hey, little Greaser, don't step on the mosaic!" What? I had violated some secret code. Gasp! I had stepped on the holy mosaic!
Suddenly I hear the clink clink clink of shoes with taps coming down the hall toward me. "Hey, leave him alone!"
"Sure thing, Jerry! We were just kidding!" The let me go, dizzy and disshoveled. My savior had arrived. Leather Jacket, taps on his shoes, and normal greased-back black hair. I would later learn his name was Jerry Allen. "Hey, kid, you gonna be a greaser?"
"A WHAT?"

"A GREASER, you know, dress cool. Not like those collegiates over there. Hey, they give you any more trouble, you just let me know. I'm Jerry."
So began 7th grade at George Mason Junior-Senior High School.
Later changes came, but I never went through the "collegiate" gotta wear name-brand clothes junk. I wen't straight from greaser to long hair. But that, Sherman, is another story for another trip on the Wayback Machine.