Those of us who came of age in the 1980s sacrificed greatly as we waged a costly war on prudent judgment. The wounds remain. We dig deep into our clothes closets and tearfully gaze upon our well-worn parachute pants and “Members Only” jackets. Flashbacks of Urkel haunt us. At night we awaken in terror, screaming, “Where’s the beef?”
When that happens, we repeat our battle cry, “Don’t worry, be happy.”
Why have you deserted us, Rick Astley and Duran Duran?
Hair was the weapon we used with most tragic results. Proof is found in the PG files, in a folder labeled, “Hairstyles, 1980s.” Our arsenal included big hair, punk hair, weaves, asymmetrical wedges, big bangs and perms. We employed Aqua Net to forge hair into shapes resembling great natural disasters. Volcanic eruptions and catastrophic hurricanes come to mind.
Sadly, our enthusiasm led us to employ tools of such inhumanity that we now hang our heads in shame. Scientists continue to study the long-term psychological damage caused by a decade of exposure to the mullet. International treaties now bar its use.
We propped our well-coiffed heads on enormous padded shoulders and walked like Egyptians into the pop culture fray.
After humiliating setbacks, such as Toni Basil’s “Mickey” video and countless Journey ballads, all of which were insipid even by ’80s standards, we simply bought more hairspray and followed in the footsteps of Howard Jones, who proved to us that gravity didn’t matter. Then all of his hair fell out.
We were cool until Nirvana came along. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” rendered us irrelevant. Poison and Cinderella were banished to the county fair circuit. Our hip hair became ridiculous. Within a few years it turned gray.
Perhaps we never had a chance. We ’80s warriors bore the burden of having our ranks spoiled by the likes of Mr. T and Papa Smurf and young Madonna.
But weep not for us of the Pet Shop Boys generation. It could have been worse. At least we didn’t come of age in the 1970s.