I made eye contact with myself in the mirror. My gave wandered up, staring at my hair. A blazing purple spiked jutted out of the top of my head, defying the laws of gravity. As I cocked my head to the side, five more spikes came into view, forming a seven inch mohawk. I looked back down at my body. A bandolier rests on my hips, and my studded jacket looks menacing in the dim light of my bathroom. It was covered in band logos, patches, and anti-war slogans. Ironically, as I looked myself over, a war was raging inside of my head. I loved the way I looked, but despised it to an unimaginable degree at the same time. I wanted to rip my hair out, spike by spike. I wanted to soak my clothes in gasoline, and watch it burn. I stood for individuality, and free thinking, and yet, I looked like a punk. I mean, sure, in my small town, I looked completely insane. In the big picture, however, looked just like every other kid with a mohawk. How hypocritical can I get? I have my mental individuality, but you can't see that. In a society that accepts almost anything, how am I supposed to be unique, original, and most importantly, offensive? If I looked like this in the 1970's, people would cross the street just to avoid walking past me. Today, people go out of their way to tell me they like my hair, or that my jacket is "awesome." This is not what I had intended. I wanted to piss people off. Then my thought process went deeper. Why do I even care? How original am I if I care what others think of me? I turned my back to the mirror, and flicked off the light switch. Everyone can f--k off, I like the way I look.
Now thats individuality.
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