On this first day of November
While cold fronts conspire
To pull the rest of the autumn leaves away
I’m listening to the Soundscapes channel
With its soothing rhythms
And thinking
That white dudes can’t pull off dreadlocks

Rest assured this is not
Racially motivated
For I think dreads are very cool
They bring an aura
Requiring a style and grace
That I don’t think weaves well
With most guys
Genetically blessed with the flop top

So for a couple of days now,
I’ve been trying to understand
The look of
A guy at Wawa with stringy dreads
Dressed in a vintage combat jacket,
Army green corporate-cut shorts,
Trendy knee high compression socks, and
A worn out T-shirt

Having just watched a doc
About punk rock
I was super aware of youthful expression
That follows every generation
But I was lost in the combination
Of ragged out reggae hair
Walking around in combat boots

His dreads, fraying and immature,
Without a hint of passion or purpose
Were lost on this suburban Caucasian
For no other reason
Than I thought
It just wasn’t a good look

Yet he rocked it anyway
Despite the annoyed glances from others
And the disapproving judgments
Of people
Who were probably questioning his motives
Or labeling him
Some sort of thug, ruffian, or loser

I took stock of my garb
The standard middle aged jock wear
With a lazy man’s Merrill mocks
And thought,
“I’m no fashion superstar
With so many cow licks glued
In the gel corral
That I can’t possibly
Sit on the Supreme Coif Court
Laying down a verdict on
My vanilla brethren’s
Follicular folly.”

Not really. I just thought,
“White dudes (in general)
Can’t pull off dreads.”

Long live punk.
Long live life’s journey.

Be fair.