Rock the Corporate

Today I wore a mohawk to work. I got out of the shower and my hair was already half-hawked, so I decided to just run with it. It’s not the most massive plume to ever wave atop someone’s skull, but I’m pretty proud of it. I may be taking too many liberties with the concept of “casual friday”, but if women in the office can wear hats that make them look like train conductors, I didn’t think a little spike would be too offensive.

While a simple adjustment of the hair might seem tame to those who are aggressively independent and edgy, the office I slave away in is particularly sensitive to youthful frivolity. We play host to a rather…international…cast, many of who are obviously not quite settled with the idea of free-thought and non-traditionalism. They often complain when people wear sneakers but simultaneously dress themselves like extras from the original 1984 Miami Vice.

The reaction I got was hilariously expected. Upper management obviously did not love the look, and offered nervous glances; maybe this outward show of stereotypical rebellion made them worry that I might throw a chair through a window or incite a riot at any minute. I’m not exactly known as a bad boy in this office; my typical jab at the dress code is not shaving for 3-4 days at a time. For kicks, I also wore my leather jacket, an olive green union jack t-shirt, a trendy scarf, paint-stained jeans, and to top off the look, my mirrored aviators.

There is something liberating and satisfying about a mohawk. It’s like wearing an out stretched middle finger on your head, all day, that you can point at anyone to subtly say, “Hey, yea, I don’t give a shit.” I don’t actively hide the fact that I dislike the atmosphere and people in this office (here, here, and here), so it is a nice feeling to somehow get away with being a dick, without people knowing I’m being a dick, without actually being a dick. I don’t really want to be mean spirited, but it is rather vindicating to intentionally make people uncomfortable after they have made the hours of my life from 8:30 AM -5:30 PM so miserable for so long.

I think I actually scared our program director; she can’t seem to make direct eye contact with me today. I never realized a palm full of product could make me into such an imposing, 5 foot 7 inch, bad ass. Maybe if I put on some Sex Pistols and do air guitar while standing on my desk, people will leave me alone for the day. A boy can dream.