Column: Tie-dye Spy, Real World Radical

"What?" "A tie-dye spy," he said, sitting back now with a self-satisfied little giggle. The implications were crystal clear, even in my impaired state. The tie-dye I was sporting was a mere ruse, a vain attempt to continue fitting in with those of my friends who were self-styled hippies. I was no hippie, Don was saying, I was one of them. I had entered The Real World. The evidence was damning. I was bringing home sizable paychecks from a Fortune 500 subsidiary which had once been responsible for an environmental near-catastrophe. (Ever hear about Three Mile Island?) I was a computer consultant. I used words like "subsidiary" and "consultant" with some frequency. And the worst part: I wore ties to work. Not tie-dyes, ties. I tried to defend myself. I really like the tie-dye -- I bought it from a guy named Ziggy on Locust Walk. I'm a musician -- that's got to count for something. And my hair's still pretty damn long in back. I got points for the hair, but not many. Though I loved my job, I found myself longing for the frivolity of the previous summer's frenzied activities -- a job of lesser responsibility by day, rehearsals and gigs with my band almost every night. But my old band had broken up. The other guys, all 24 to 35 years old, had begun to show their age; they'd quit to devote more energy to their jobs, wives and kids. They held out for a while, longer than most in fact, but now they'd plunged completely into The Real World, never to return. Of course, some argue that The Real World isn't such a horrible place. My brother Gary, for example, graduated from Penn with an oh-so-marketable degree from the College a couple of years ago. Having made no serious attempt to find a job, he went to Ohio State to get an MBA and to fulfill his dream of making lots of money. Gone now is the undergrad Gary -- the one who sang in Chord on Blues, played the bass guitar and abused his cardiovascular system in amusing ways. He'd always been a little anal retentive, but now he was totally out of control. In other words, he wasn't out of control at all. And then there's the hair issue. Gary never had long hair, but he thought about it a lot -- it's some sort of symbol for retaining the energy and creativity of youth. He even started growing it long during his last year here, but he cut it for the two interviews he bothered to schedule. After the companies "dinged" him, he heroically resolved to let it grow throughout grad school. Then Gary got hired by Andersen Consulting, a magnet for highly talented, conservative yuppies who'd like to retire with lots of money by age 40. Long hair just doesn't fly at Andersen -- nothing unconservative flies at Andersen. I know another guy who works for Andersen in New York. He wears a dark suit with a red tie to work every day. So when Gary brought me to one of Andersen's "happy hours," my hair was the first thing noticed at every introduction. To their credit, the folks at Andersen drink like madmen. But I was still irked when Gary's well-lubricated boss noticed my hair and smirked, "So . . . when'r'ya gonna enter The Real World, kid?" Now I was pissed. First outcast by the Hippies for my ties, now The Real World had sent Gary's shit-faced boss as an emissary to tell me that my uncut hair didn't cut it. Absolutely everyone thought I was doing it all wrong. "Now look," I said, none too sober myself. "I'm a commuter constuln' for a Forchin-fivehunnert comp'ny, and I'm makin' more'n these . . . well-groomed weasels you hired, izzat real enough fer you?" Fortunately, by the time I finished he'd forgotten what we were talking about, so we refilled our beer mugs and parted amicably. But I still can't figure out this notion that short hair connotes maturity. Receding hair, sure. But short hair would only make me look younger. But what really bugs me is that these people seem to crave a comfortable, boring lifestyle; it's their ambition. Gary sums up his philosophy by saying, "It's good to be able to pay your bills -- and your irresponsible little brothers' bills!" I sympathize to some degree. I too enjoy having lots of money, and I too have irresponsible little brothers whose bills I may have to pay one day. But after hanging out with a bunch of alumni this past weekend, I've concluded that every College graduate I know is either boring or broke. The graduate students are both. So I'm not that worried that I won't get a job. I'm worried that if I get a job, I'll be locked into this comfortable, boring lifestyle from which there's no escape. From what I've been told, I have exactly two options: live a meager but carefree existence as a hippie musician, or make lots of money and look forward to a massive mid-life crisis. I'm hoping they're wrong, because that's not a decision I'm prepared to make. But I have decided that I'm not cutting my hair in the near future. The Real World can wait, and besides, my hair will fall out on its own soon enough. Jay Levin is a senior Political Science major from Akron, Ohio. Not That You Asked appears alternate Tuesdays.