Nohawk, Nohow

 

'What'll it be then?' Asked the hairdresser, folding out her cigarette and picking up her scissors.  

 

'A Mohawk,' I boldly answered.

 

'No,' she flatly refused, 'I can not, will not be responsible for making you look foolish. I'll do no such thing.'

 

So five minutes later I left the salon with a very standard short haircut and feeling sadly incomplete, with only my moccasins, buckskin leggings, and a buffalo horn breastplate to identify me as a Red Indian.