Since I was in high school I’ve always sported something that resembles a shag: hair that is not long enough to be considered truly long, but not short enough to be considered truly short.

Truth is, when I was in high school, I was known widely by a number of girls and guys alike, from all over Winnipeg, for what was called “the flip.” The flip was an action that occurred dozens of times a day, and it consisted of putting my head back and tossing at least five inches of hair out of my eyes.

I never really noticed the flip. Someone actually told me about it once, and when I realized that I did in fact have a flip, I thought it was kind of cool. To me it was neat that no one could see my eyes unless I voluntarily moved my hair.

When I first realized the power of the flip, I was 16 years old. I would wander the halls of my high school, and I didn’t have to talk to anyone if I really didn’t want to. I would just put my head down, let the bangs drape over my eyes and do what I pleased, ignoring any one who tried to talk to me, because really, in all honesty, I didn’t see them.

Actually, whenever I wanted to really get my point across, I would flip my hair back, look at whoever I wanted to freak out dead in the eye and say something to them, immediately putting the hair back over my eyes.

It was weird. Even though people my age from all over the neighbourhood knew who I was, no one really knew anything about me. I think this is because the flip was too much of a divider for some people. Girls would introduce themselves to me and say something like, “You’re Morgan Modjeski,” and I would say something like, “Yes.”

Then the flip would go down and the conversation ended. This is one of the main reasons I hated parties. People would come up to me, acknowledge that they knew who I was and then never talk to me again.

It didn’t bother me, though. I would hear about these random parties from one person or another and I usually went alone. Only talking to a few people for a short time was no problem. In fact, I would usually wait for some poor sucker to pass out and then I would walk by their motionless body, steal their alcohol and leave the party.

The once-motionless body would then wake up hours later in a total haze, looking to party, and they would be without booze. They would look at their friends, who were also wasted, and ask, “Hey man, where is my bottle?”
Little did they know that by the time they posed this question I was on my way back to Old St. Vital, usually in the back seat of someone’s car or in the back of a pick up, downing the booze that they — in their drunken state — are still looking for.

I, however, knew where their booze was. It was flowing over my teeth, sliding down into my stomach, producing wild glazed eyes, full of excitement — covered by the flip.

Now days, my long hair does not mean the same things it used to. The only reason I wear my hair long is because I feel that it makes me stand out from other gents in the crowd, no longer is it a weird shield or blinder. In fact, it really isn’t anything. In all reality, it was ever only one thing: It was messy.

There was another guy ay my school with hair that could be flipped. We got along well and I considered him a good friend of mine, but he was always quiet and only attended school with me for a year.

We had the same kind of outlook during those years. We would wear the long hair and keep on doing what we did, but in a way we were totally separated from the rest of the population because of it.

I used to think back to our outlook on life with a sort of regretful love, but I recently found out from a mutual friend that he had killed himself. I’m sure that our experiences and the ideals that we held in high school had nothing to do with his suicide, but at times I can’t help but wonder if the cause was rooted in the way we felt in high school: separated and at times on our own, behind our natural blinders.