Fifteen years old, philosophical mind on gear 11 — half my scalp decides to secede from the union. Alopecia Areata. Bald patches exploding the insane artist’s creatively hand-drawn world map — continents of baby skin drifting around my Pangeian skull. Friction? Stressing? No, identity apocalypse.
It affected my personality more than anything else — and also made it increasingly impossible to fit into the already disjointed and meaningless school life at Danderyds High School’s media program in Stockholm in 1996. Life had paused, and I felt completely deprived of the conditions necessary to do what everyone else my age was doing — to establish themselves as proud, independent, attractive, unique, and liberated youth through their clothes, appearance, and hairstyle (which I had then been robbed of).
Müller — punk-recruiter from middle school — had previously poured promises of graphic rebellion in my ears. He had motivated me to choose the media program along with him, a program my rather poor grades just barely qualified me for. I got in by the skin of my teeth.
So, first day. Jan, the teacher, stood up in front of thirty teenagers and announced, loud and proud: “David has a hair condition — like that hockey player on the national team — no one’s allowed to crap on him about his cap.” Apparently, my dad had spoken to the teacher beforehand, asking him not to make a big deal out of my embarrassing cover-up. He did the opposite.
Maybe a good thing — as this goth girl glides up afterwards — black everything, silver ankh, eyes like she’d already seen the end of the world and liked the view. Johanna. Calls herself a witch. Wants to be my friend. Says the teacher’s a jerk, offers me magic crystals to regrow hair. Also says — casual as cherry: “I could also remove your virginity as a healing ritual; very pleasant reward. I assure you, my Finnish repressed boyfriend Trolli won’t mind.”
I mumbled something about psycholoically managing hypocritical Mormon death-threats regarding sex outside marriage — but childhood programming would be entirely rewritten shortly. Her nostrils flare like I’m dangling a new shiny toy in front of her eyes. Game on.
We started ICQ-ing that night. Johanna claimed bisexuality as unending weather, flooded my feed with images of her grimy goth girls-group — my fifteen-year-old circuitry activated. One stood out: red hair, leather, handle Vampiria. Real name Maria. Couldn’t unsee. Johanna noticed, bragged about making out with her at a secret sect party, then invited me to her own, next week.
Sacred party: dark lights, Rammstein roaring, smoke signals, twilight zone — another secret level of reality revealing itself. Trolli — repressed Finnish boyfriend — lurking in the liminal lattice like a lost Viking.
Johanna juxtaposes me early: “Can we have sex now?”
Me: “I’m flattered, but I don’t have the courage yet.”
Response seems to make the witch angry — me weaponizing feigned fear as an excuse for not wanting her.
Soon after, Vampiria materializes — UV crimson leather slippery squeaking, refulgent red hair, a 16-year-old female Marilyn Manson (but severely sexy) — locking her eyes deep in mine, voluptuously whispers: “Johanna mentioned you — wanna do something..?” System overflow. Can’t engage, albeit the girl of my dreams offering herself to me on a silver platter with diamonds.
All this — new — quite unsettling — night fresh and wonderfully absurd. Two pro-witches circling this half-bald Nike-capped unintentional Mormon virgin like le plat principal était un steak frites. Was this the game? A double-prank? A triple-ritual? Didn’t mind, didn’t matter. I was in it — and everything — everything — was accelerating.
I uphold my new Roni Size & Reprazent New Forms record like a shield. Right move. Right genre. Right style. Right taste.
