Why Michael Cut His Hair

A Memorial

As some of you may know, and some of you may not, once upon a time Michael Dahlquist had very long hair. Not only was his hair lengthy, it was extraordinarily dense and wavy. He cut it in layers: picture a vast dark mane cascading down his back, sprouting feathered wings after the fashion of Farrah Fawcett of old. With his lithe frame, lofty stature, and enormous smile, Michael resembled a laughing tree in wind, a toothy ribbon of walking kelp. Of course this was some time ago.

Michael and I became close friends in high school, when we were fifteen. From the moment we met we spent our time making obscure pronouncements and laughing hysterically. At graduation we were voted "Most Unique". Later we ended up at the same college, and there indulged in holding hands and other boyfriend/girlfriend activities.

When we were twenty we traveled to Europe. Our introduction to Amsterdam was being nearly run into a canal by a speeding blue Mercedes Benz. Having survived that we ambled down the continent, along the way sampling varieties of chocolate milk to determine which country’s was the best (Holland won).

But back to hair. We were training over the Pyrenees into Spain. During the trip Spanish porters kept walking through the car, frowning and muttering under their breath in Michael's direction. We felt appalled and frightened: was it something we said? The porters might not understand English, but still. Did we smell funny? Finally we concluded, in lieu of any other apparent reason, that Michael's luscious locks must be offending the porters' famed Spanish machismo. Just then Michael (green in European train etiquette) stretched out his legs and placed his feet on the seat across from us. That was the last straw. One of the porters began yelling at us in Catalan, another gesticulated wildly toward the nearest exit. At the next stop we were thrown off the train!

We found ourselves in a picturesque town nestled in the Pyrenees. As we waited for the next train (which held, we hoped, more forgiving porters) we walked about admiring the town, whose name we never discovered. There were large speakers affixed to second story’s of buildings, and all over could be heard Phil Collins singing One More Night and Take Me Home. In vain we wondered if there was some kind of a celebration going on (there were no other signs of festivities), or whether the inhabitants of the hamlet had for some reason developed a fondness Phil Collins, and broadcast daily his music for all to hear.

We arrived in Barcelona amidst a smoky terracotta sunset. We would be staying with Paul, Michael's father, and his friend who played cello beautifully in doorways and alcoves near the Ramblas. The next morning Paul and I shared cafe au lait and croissants while Michael visited a barber.

And that is why, for the rest of his life, Michael Dahlquist had short hair.

Love,

Kelly