Karmic Convulsion (or Hippies, Part I)

Many people assume that hippies are a free loving, culture-clashing, Sixties-reliving bunch. While I have no doubt that brand of Dharma and Greg stereotype is alive and well in some remove corner of the universe, I have yet to meet them. Turns out, as a matter of fact, that the modern hippie can be narrow-minded, shallow and materialistic. How do I know?

I spent three summers with hippies, back when I was in college.

I'll be perfectly honest with you. This was not a Bedouin, camping, Outward Bound experience. While intriguing on some levels, it was Stockholm Syndrome on others.

It all started back in 1991, just after my sophomore year of college. After reviewing my options in Northern Maine (waitress, potato farmer or truck stop hooker), I felt that employment opportunities would be greater in rural West Virginia. As a result, I opted to keep my 'school job' and work as "The Cafe Chick" through Summer School and the Festival. I was even allowed to live on campus at no additional charge.

I quickly found out why.

Apparently, many of the Festival Attendees were hippies in name only. Their Real Life Persona, be they Psychotic Drifter or Hard Core Prosecutor, would shine through the thin exterior of Peace, Love and Happiness. Most Cafeteria Employees quit within days of the Festival start, as it was truly a miserable place to be.

My First Hippie*entered the cafe entered the cafeteria at 6:03 am on Day One. Despite the fact that we had been open for exactly three minutes, she insisted that we were grossly understaffed and terribly under prepared food-wise. I sized up her faux-leather, bra free four hundred pound frame and resisted the urge to giggle. Then I saw her button.

It read How dare you assume I wish I was thin! in bold, black letters across a hot pink background. I immediately thought I just wish you'd wear a bra! I snickered - and the gloves were off.

Let me correct that: The faux-leather jacket was off.

It turned out that the bra wasn't the only thing missing. The sleeves of her (men's) undershirt had been removed, either by knife or perhaps broken beer bottle. There was no mystery left, as she also opted not to shave her armpits. She braided her armpit hair instead. With BEADS.

My horror at the sight was obvious: I visibly recoiled while giggling loudly. I may have even snorted. I had never, ever, ever seen anything so revolting! Sadly, My First Hippie* didn't understand. She began ranting and raving about terrible treatment, calling for my immediate dismissal. My boss, a half-asleep, deeply hungover Italian man, took in this visual masterpiece with a slow sigh. He glanced at me, shrugged, bit his lip...then turned and walked away.

I, being young, anxious and horrified that such an ill-kept creature would DARE demand my firing, turned tail and chased my boss into the bakery section of the kitchen. I hollered his name, but he refused to turn and face me. Finally, exasperated, I yelled "Hey, BUTTHEAD! Am I fired or not?!" He turned slowly, shaking, to reveal a bright red face covered in tears. He was gasping for air from laughter.

"Oh...Holy...*($%!" was all he could say. Then he began convulsing with laughter again. "That...was...a...horrible...horrible...woman!" he wheezed. "I...had...no...idea...WOW!" He took a few minutes to calm down, wipe his face and breathe without shaking. He cleared his throat, shook his head, and faced me.

"No, you aren't fired," he said. "But call me Butthead again and we may have to review that. Now get back to work."

Thus began the saga of Hippie Summers in West Virginia...

(*You don't bathe it! You don't clean it! You don't shave or groom it! Roll it in Patchouli, dip it in mud...and send it on its way! It's My First Hippie!)