Freaks and Geeks

     Netflix binge.

     I first discovered this modern-age phenomenon when E broke his leg about three years ago. Confined to his bed for the first few days, and then forced to stay at home after a subsequent surgery, he and his mom watched countless hours of Breaking Bad, from episode one until he caught up with production.

     This week, my girl has been sick at home. I stayed with her one day and got sucked into the world of binge watching. We watched a few episodes of Friends, then moved to Freaks and Geeks. We’re on episode 15. It’s like watching a home movie of my freshman year of high school.

     If Pepperell High School was divided into freaks and geeks, I most definitely fell to the geek side. I identify with Sam, Neil and Bill in a way that is almost too uncomfortable. Plagued by thick rimmed glasses, the social skills of an ostrich and the mistaken belief that middle school jerks and prima donnas would grow up and be civil in high school, I barely survived.

     The episode that made it all too real involved Sam’s attempt at a makeover to make him popular. Geeky Sam and his friends notice that the pretty, popular girls likes the boys with the hair that parted in the middle and feathered back. That is straight out of 1978.  I wanted that hair. Specifically, and sorry for calling you out, buddy, but I wanted Jeff Odom’s hair.

     At 14, Jeff had the mane of Adonis. Straight and shiny, it parted neatly down the middle and feathered to perfection. The more it grew, the better it got. Compare that to my teen-age reality. My hair was dry and enormous. I tried to part it, and I succeeded. The result was what the Red Sea must have looked like when Israel crossed over: two giant walls divided by a deep break. The longer it got the bigger it got. Though I never witnessed it, Jeff’s hair, I’m sure, blew in the wind with the car windows down. My hair would not move in a tornado.

     The girls liked Jeff’s hair. They liked my algebra notes.
     Jeff's hair got him dates to homecoming. My hair, with the added attraction of good grades, got me study buddies. 

     I hadn’t thought about it before, but this hair thing was somewhat symbolic of my freshman year. Like me, nothing about my hair fit in, despite my best efforts.

     Thirty-eight years later, my hair, though gray, is decently under control, and, thankfully, nobody cares about my algebra skills. Thirty-eight years later, both Jeff and I have the girl each of us was meant to be with. You couldn’t pay me enough money to relive freshman year. but I have to admit it was entertaining to revisit it on Netflix.