There is a “known” thing on my Mom’s side of the family, if there are any qwerks or oddities in any of our personalities, or physical bodies, we blame it on the Banks side of our family. Aka, Banksisms.
The females have coined a term, Bankles, because apparently on the female side the Banks genes create legs that run straight from the calves into feet, bypassing the ankles. At least any visible ankle-like formation. I, being a male, apparently don’t have this abnormality. Or maybe I do and have never noticed it. But to us Banks, Bankles are a real thing. And they are, unfortunately, somewhat traumatizing.
My cousins have been going through a rough stretch recently and have had many people lovingly try to help them through the hard times. Apparently, one of these kind people offered to help one of my cousins work through his emotions. To most people, this would be a normal thing for someone caring to offer. But to a Banks, this is outrageous! I don’t remember exactly, but his response was something like this.
“We’re Banks, we don’t deal with our feelings…” This may be the most true statement I have heard in years!
The most well known Banks trait is that we really don’t want to hear your opinion about what we are doing. And if you tell us not to do something, we probably will go right out and do it. Not saying it is right. Or wrong. But it is an undeniable Banksism.
With that in mind, you might better understand Operation: Caveman. It has deep roots in Banksisms. I have always been a bit of a strange dood. I never really liked normal and normal never really liked me. When everyone was wearing pants, because it was “cold”, I was wearing shorts. “Why?”, people ask. “Why do this to yourself?!?”. Like I was tattooing my tongue or something. The answer is simple really. It was, and is, because shorts are so much more comfortable. Nothing profound. No epiphany that came to me in a Heavenly vision. It’s simply more comfortable to wear shorts than pants. At least for me. And to this day, at 41 years of age, my shorts-wearing still gives people pause.
When I was young, I was given a sweet Schwinn dirt bike. I loved it. It was Dukes of Hazard orange! It was, however, a very small-wheeled bike. It had 12 inch blue mag wheels. I still have it to this day. I rode that thing to elementary school, middle school and high school. Thinking about it now, I am sure I looked pretty ridiculous. A gangling, six foot tall, 150 pound teenager peddling around on this exceedingly small bike. But I really didn’t care how I looked on it. It was a sweet bike. And I have Banks genes. Back off!
And then there was my hair. In my younger years, when I had no say so, I had a bowl placed over my head while some untrained folks with semi-sharp scissors hacked away. Thankfully, that bowl protected some of my precious brown locks. But the aftermath was sometimes an odd sight.
As I grew older, and had more say in things, it got weird. Mullets became popular. As did, what I call, the Parker Lewis hair (Google it!). Somehow, in that all-knowing teenage brain of mine, I thought I could have the best of both worlds! A crazy-high, Parker Lewis-esque front with the “party in the back”. On top of all that, most of the time I would wear a baseball hat. But the hat did not fit over my hair sprayed bang-like things. So the bill pointed straight up to the sky. This was really. Really. Really nice.
As I graduated and was looking to play baseball at an institution of higher learning, the baseball coach who offered me a scholarship basically told be to lose the hair. After much deliberation, I conceded. However, just to make a point I did not go the normal route and get a nice clean cut. No, that would go against all Banksims. Staying true to my heritage, I buzzed it all off.
Eventually, and fortunately for me, I had a premature exit from that wonderful school in the middle of Kansas and met my soon to be wife who also had her own style. The finishing touch of her style was her hair. It was platinum. I was a bit intrigued, so I asked her how she did it. Being who she was, she said she bleached it.
At some point, I had grown a bit of hair back on the top of my head and decided it would be brilliant to bleach it! So I busted out my Mom’s Clorox, a rag or a sponge of some sort and had at it. I showed up for work the next day with canary yellow hair! If I remember right, I did it one or two more times and actually got it pretty white. Then I didn’t cut it for another year. So I had long brown hair, buzzed all around the sides and back, with about a inch and a half of white tips. Brilliant! And even more brilliantly, I found out after I had Cloroxed my hair multiple times that my eventual bride failed to mention that she used HAIR bleach. That would have been a nice bit of information to have known BEFORE my bleach-capade…
The point is, it appears my whole life has been leading up to this point. Between my history of not so thoughtful hair experiments and the genes handed down to me from the Banks side of the family, I really have no choice. As my last day of work officially passed March 30th, 2018 – I had no choice but to do something to commemorate the event. As I embark on this epoch48 journey, how could I do so without doing something, well, “dumb” for old times sake?
Operation: Caveman is that something, well, “dumb”. Or, I am sure it would be in most peoples eyes. And it is already underway. The gist of this mission is simple.
Phase One – Remove all facial and non-facial hair on my head. With a razor. Down to the skin. Once the skin on my head feels like that of a baby’s butt, commence Phase Two.
Phase Two – Don’t cut any facial or non-facial hair on my head until said hair on my head is at least 10 inches long. 10 inches. Doing some quick searching online, I found that the average person’s hair grows 3/4″ per month. My uneducated math tells me that it will take roughly 14 months to the desired length.
So, for the next 13.5 months, no sharp objects will come near my head. And my luscious brown hair will grow. And grow. And if you tell me not to, the Banks in me will give you a quirky smile as if to say, “watch me”. Because I have done stuff like this before. This time around, there will not be any bleach involved. A d as “dumb” as it may sound, there is a purpose.
If you haven’t, check out Locks of Love. They are “a public non-profit organization that provides hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children under age 21 suffering from long-term medical hair loss from any diagnosis.” In another attempt to not make epoch48 just about me, or us, this not so “dumb” little mission will hopefully change how a child feels about them-self as they push through a challenge that no one should have to push through.
So it is a win win. I get to do something, well, “dumb”. But for a great cause. So maybe it’s not so “dumb”? And some youngsters who could really use my caveman-like hair will reap the benefits!
Check our social feeds weekly for updates on Operation: Caveman. We’ll be posting pictures on my quest to grow 10 inches of hair! And maybe, after you read the mission of Locks of Love, you might just join me on this, well, not so “dumb” mission. And if you need some Banks help you cope with all the questions you’ll get about your Caveman mission, just message me. I have plenty.