When I cut my hair last June, I played it cocky, but a part of me died. When asked: "it was time for a change." That much was true. I was done with unchoking shower drains; I was done with being a hair care princess. I was ready for a different set of stereotypes.

The best thing about the move: it was solely on my terms. At 39, this was the second time I grew it out and cut it off. In 1990, I cut it because the need for McJobs forced my hand. I was about to graduate; decent work was going elude me as long as I had a mane.

This time around, I cut it when I was damn good and ready. I found a way to be an executive with my hair tied back. It was a pretty cool theory to prove: even in corporate America, if I was on top of my game, I could look the way I wanted to look. Being the only man with long hair at trade shows was a little daunting sometimes, but I did my homework.

The shock value of having a buzz cut for the first time in six years delivered some satisfying moments. My business partner literally fell backwards in her kitchen when she saw me. But I couldn't help wondering what I had lost. In the late '90s, I sported a crew cut for five years. At the time, I was part of a dotcom that went down with hard feelings. The questions left behind weren't fun. I had gotten involved in something corrupt. Worse, I was corrupt. I had done some good things, but like my hair, I had trimmed to fit. Success was danger; I had become lost in it. The failure of that business was the luckiest setback ever.

Not long after, I started dreaming about hair. In the summer of 2000, after we went under, I started my own business. Then I betrayed my barber and let the crew cut demolish itself. If there's one thing I can still do in my thirties, it's grow hair. I started with some mutton chops, designed by my ex-girlfriend as a drastic "70s throwback" change from the crew cut years. Once I grew the top out, things got out of hand. I got rid of the muttons; it was too much hair for one head.

Each morning, the mirror finally showed me the man I was looking for. The first few years of my new business were gritty. I had a year where I didn't sleep through the night. Napping, working, napping. I was an anything-it-takes work zombie. On the roughest days, I would rub my eyes after three hours on the couch, grab the mouthwash, and spot my hair rolling down my back in the bathroom mirror. In that moment, to look the way I wanted to look - it was all worth it.

I guess 9/11 had something to do with it too. After 9/11, looking different felt like a patriotic obligation. What good was the fight unless people could look the way they wanted to look and live they way they wanted to live? How was it possible to defend freedom and enforce conformity? My hair reminded me daily: I was a warrior. I have a hypocritical contempt for the consumption culture I am a part of and the weakness of character it fosters. To me, the struggle to remain fierce and independent is a much higher calling than working and shopping until "cubicle ass" sets in. I felt like a badass with that rock and roll hair, just like my hero Kory Clarke did back in the day.

Kory is the former lead singer of Warrior Soul, and during Warrior Soul's 90s heyday, he lived the rock star life, but with a revolutionary bravado that captivated me. There is nothing fiercer than the sound of Kory on vinyl. Kory was as free as America gets. He conceded nothing to careerism or blind patriotism or the docile state of acceptance we've confused with maturity. To me, intelligent rage is the sexiest quality in the world, and Kory oozed it. I wanted nothing more than to live like Kory. I could start by looking like he did.

But I wasn't really living like Kory. I had my moments, but mostly I was a hairy guy running a struggling business. On good hair days, I was a rock star, but on bad days, I felt like an aging hippy. And there is nothing I hate more than being confused with a hippie. Hippie culture is a topic for another time, but what passes for Hippie Chic is not something I ever wanted to be linked with. But I lived for the good hair days. Dancing with my hair thrashing around me at Fancy Trash shows were the best of those days. I got the dead ends cleaned by Regina once every few months. In between quarterly hair appointments, I worked, wrote, slept, and worked some more. I battled health problems and lived alone. I was nothing like a rock star, unless you want to count Layne Staley, camped in his apartment before he drugged himself to death. My hair was supposed to be a beacon of strength, but beneath that glamour I was hanging on by strands. Alone was a way of life.

Glamour is a strange thing for me to aspire to. On one level, I'm not at all interested in being glamorous. I've signed on to a way of life that requires a total commitment to pursuing the dream, no matter how daunting. According to my personal code, being relentless is far more admirable than being glamorous. Needless to say, I fail to meet my own standards constantly, but I still believe in it. I guess my hair brought a touch of glamour to my life. I'd put on my red boots and my beat up Metallica shirt and I'd feel like a direct descendant of Mick and Kory and James and Layne and Axel. On those rock star days, I could imagine a shortcut directly to the top, adoration by others without the slog. Perhaps though glamour, I wouldn't have to give so much blood. Through glamour, maybe I could win someone's heart. I sure wasn't going to win hearts typing till light set in. My hair gave me a chance - or so I thought.

Cutting my hair felt like a negotiated surrender. I had unleashed a rock star into the world, but I had landed with a thud. I thought my hair would be a beacon, attracting that wild-eyed princess of subversion, but she did not come. I could taste her, I could see her, I could feel her running her hands through my hair at night. But I woke alone. All I had to show for my hair was a great photoset and a bunch of clogged drains. 40 was almost upon me. I was running out of time. Time I could have used for writing was spent as a hair princess, washing and brushing and primping. It was over. So I went to a barbershop and cut off years.

I have always identified with the Indian warriors of my Oklahoma youth. For most Indian warriors, getting that hair shorn was the ultimate symbol of defeat: a tragic resignation of a culture that fought valiantly against invaders but lost. Lost because of disease and head count and inferiority of weaponry, not because of pride or spirit or dignity. If we have a better way of life than the old warriors that sparked my imagination, I'd sure love to see some signs of it.

Strange, then, that my short hair put me back in the world a little stronger. Long hair was not just warrior hair, it was also something I could hide in. My own lost hopes had ample cover. I could feel it blocking my vision and took comfort in the retreat. Once the hair was cut, there was no elegant retreat. I'm out there. I'm not sure what I project onto the world these days; it may not be clear at first glance. My beacon of difference is inside me now. I try to project an inner fierceness; I don't know if it works.

I’m reassured by those who have gone before: Metallica ditched their locks years ago and went on to make brave (if increasingly misunderstood) music. The Metallica lesson is simple: get right on the inside, make work that speaks for itself, and let those who were caught up in your image twist in the wind. So far, it’s working. And I have to admit: my hair does look good short. I get a lot more compliments than regrets. But lots of days, I don't know who I am with the same visual certainty. There is also a graceful aspect to long hair that cannot be simulated with short. I have no idea how to let my guard down anymore, the way I could peering through my hair like a damaged bird that had flown too far and seen too much.

There are no happy endings to prop up my essays, but I will say that I've come to think there are two kinds of rock stars. One are the Bono/David Lee Roth/Kory Clarke kind. The other are the everyday rock stars, the ones that bring a spark to their lives despite the setbacks. These everyday stars come in many types, and they look like you and me. What sets them apart is not an outrageous appearance, but something magical inside. They seem to have one thing in common: the ability to dream a better life while giving their best to those around them. If they are bitter about the hair they've cut off, they don't show it. Maybe I can be that kind of rock star. The death of dreams casts a huge shadow. I can feel the doubt wedged in my heart, urging me to give up. Or to sell out. Do something, anything, just to get off this edge. Find something to settle for.

Fortunately, I don't know how. I rationalize this by telling myself there is more dignity in a beautiful lost cause than in a slow slide into workaday mediocrity. The sweet despair of self-destruction is tempting, but in the end, I opt for the humbling process of carrying on. There were years when my hair kept me from getting in bed with the wrong people. My long hair was a great filter as far as separating good business colleagues from skuzzy ones. When people respect what makes you different, your relationship is off to a good start. Now that my hair is short again, it's on me to keep that idiot filter in place.

The good news is that I'm no longer in danger of selling out; my perils lie elsewhere. I'm more concerned about dying with a broken heart. But I don't fear the tragic anymore, only the mediocre. The charms of easy money could never sway me now. Like Captain Ahab, I have set my course. Unlike Ahab, I hope to focus more on the journey than an elusive beast of an ending. But we have this much in common: our destinations are not for sale. I guess you could say I cut my hair when I no longer needed it in order to stay true.

So I cut my hair, and a part of me died. You might not notice me in a crowd anymore. But I hope to leave an imprint. I hope someday I will be found. And I hope the person who finds me has the key. Because I know the lock still opens. And my hair still longs for those fingers of subversion to run through it.