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Next I headed up Capitol Street past the temporary trailers that housed businesses displaced by urban renewal. I checked out the albums at a groove-yard called BJ’s Records. I liked John Denver and bought all his albums, but I never told my friends because most gearheads thought John Denver was a wus. Next I thumbed the leather vests, with real buffalo nickel buttons, at Buck’s leathers and looked through the photography books at Epstein’s for pictures of naked women. Then I crossed the street to Things, Things, and Things, which was a very unusual establishment – part head shop, part art gallery – sort of a general store for hippies. The smell of incense was over-powering as I entered the Age of Aquarius. Posters filled every square inch of wall space and were even plastered over the entire ceiling. I purchased a huge image of the Wolf Man that a hippie chick cashier with long braided golden hair rolled up in brown paper for me. She wore huge bell-bottom jeans and even her wispy thin, light blue shirt had bell-bottoms sleeves, like a maiden in waiting haunting a medieval castle. I looked over the bongs as the giant speakers overhead boomed out the Cowsills singing Hair:
Gimme head with hair
Long beautiful
Streaming, flaxed, waxen
Give me down to there hair
Shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy
Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
My hair
It was not a good time in history to be bald. My own hair was about four inches below my ears now. . . .
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