@lloydbird, I don’t know if I have one! At 19, when I was in college, my hair was dark honey blonde and came halfway down my back. I wore it loose, of course. (At 15 I had my waist-length hair cut short just because everyone else was starting to grow theirs long then!) I pierced my own ears one night after my parents went to bed, while I was home on break. I had a couple of straight cotton shifts that I lived in, shifts having been the rebellious answer to Donna Reed shirtwaists and Shelley Fabares skirts and sweaters. We hadn’t all moved into jeans yet. I also had some miniskirts.
I went barefoot for almost an entire semester and wore sunglasses day and night so I would look stoned even though I (mostly) wasn’t. I wore beads and played the guitar and sang songs I learned from Bob Dylan and Joan Baez and Pete Seeger albums, spurning the popular folkies like the New Christy Minstrels and PP&M because they were “too commercial” (I’ve learned a few things about “commercial” since then).
I dropped out of school at 19 and went back to the parental suburbs, and then I got a little apartment in Boston where I could be a straight office clerk by day and a hippie by night (a lot of us were part-time hippies because we didn’t want to live with our parents and we didn’t want to be broke either). I was as free as a free spirit can be who still has to pay the rent.
By the time I went back to college 4 years later (and graduated), most of the fun was over, and I was older than my classmates, but there was still a generational mood, and I was caught up in it, as were most of my peers.
If anyone took a picture of me then, aside from the Boston Herald, whose photographer picked me to shoot one night on Boston Common reading a comic book by candlelight and stuck me on the front page as a representative of the population that convened every night for tribal fellowship, I guess it must have been in my civilian garb. I don’t think I have any pictures at all from that period, not even of my old boyfriends, alas.
Whenever we go over to Felton and Ben Lomond and some of the other small communities tucked away in the Santa Cruz mountains, it is like a time warp. I can see people who would have sat next to me when the cast of Hair gave a free concert on a Sunday afternoon in a Boston park, but now they’re driving derelict pickups and buying organic produce. They still wear tie-dye, and their ponytails are gray.