We stayed at the Chelsea and I got my hair cut there by a hairdresser who had done Dee Dee Ramone’s that morning. Nothing unusual in that. She told me she’d cut his hair for years. I never discovered if it was true. I wanted it to be true. Dee Dee Ramone. Dee Dee’s hair was no fixed thing. Johnny’s was the iconic Ramones’ hair, so that’s the cut I got. No one at home had that. Johnny threw his hair forward when he stabbed at his guitar, as if hair could be another weapon. The first time I saw it, I knew it was a signature move. I was about ten back then. I made Lindsey take a photo of me and my new hair, a close-up by the Hotel Chelsea sign near the door. I had a denim jacket on, thumbs in my jean pockets. I turned away from the camera and put on a look of purpose, pouting at the traffic on 23rd Street, as if searching for a cab that might not be coming, or might arrive with a starlet, or David Byrne, or a drag queen once painted by Andy Warhol. It was an album cover, that pose—one foot on the wall, knee bent, deep stare fixed on the middle of nothing—but the photo ended up looking mostly like me.
