“This cooler’s big enough for a six pack and my nitro booster.” “You wish you knew what I had to do to get these big beads.”īeads were everywhere at the Best Party Anywhere thanks to Chip vendor Beads Beads Beads and that other word that starts with “B.”ĩ. Anything goes at Jose Craigo’s daily Bikini Beach Party, and we do mean anything!Ĩ. Homemade bikinis, beer bellies, big ol’ burps and, of course, body shots. “This mix is equal parts agave and belly button lint.” The Chip’s the place where you can be yourself or be someone else!ħ. “Check it out…These things are real (and as big as my head)!” There are few things that make Sturgis concerts at the Chip better, except maybe a little social lubricant. Sometimes things can get a little too wild in our VIP reception area. There are plenty of places to get a great view of your favorite band at the Chip, like the front row, the Top Shelf or the Fan VIP Skybox.Ĥ. “Everyone, come see how good I look in the front row!” The luscious ladies of the Miss Buffalo Chip Pageant love to entertain crowds on stage and mingle with guests off stage.ģ. “I just touched my first butt, and it was soooo good.” The Buffalo Chip is no boys-only club! Biker girls can have just as much fun as their male counterparts.Ģ. Check out these 17 Sturgis photos that prove what happens at the Chip doesn’t always stay at the Chip! Late night parties, scantily clad women, drunken debauchery, crazy outfits, you name it-it’s all captured here. But I can bury my nose in his poofy mane and let him go a few more days without a haircut.Thousands of motorcycles, beautiful biker girls, unforgettable concerts, and inexplicable freedom made for one heck of party at the Buffalo Chip during the 2014 Sturgis Rally. And watching him shift from rogue to legend with each new adventure makes me long to see the world through his one uncovered eye, and live the many tales that make up his one-of-a-kind soul. Middleborn’s imagination grows with his hair. When he leans forward his hair flows down like autumn willow limbs, hiding the lip-biting, squinting intensity of a boy at work.
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He builds a LEGO battle scene of long-haired warriors with black helmets, pitted against naïve and doomed helicopter pilots who, incidentally, have no hair. His exposed forehead welcomes the rushing air like a secret.Īt home he’s a hermit meditating in his own shade. The bright tails flutter into pointed flames. Middleborn sticks his head out the open car window and lets the wind flow through his mane. He stalks up and down the soccer field like a lion, tracking the ball with his one uncovered eye, lunging for it with bared teeth. Heroes and savages hide in us all, vying against each other for the chance to blaze forth against the survivalist instincts that shackle us into lockstep conformity.Īnd the longer Middleborn’s hair gets, the brighter his inner legends blaze. It reminds me of Middleborn’s refusal to domesticate wild things which is one of the traits he got from me. The bane of every 10-year-old boy who ever went vogueing down pastel elementary school hallways while pretending not to notice girls.Įven though it annoys me, I can’t bring myself to cut his hair. “Except when the poof sticks up.”Īh, the poof. “And I NEVER have bad hair days,” Middleborn continues. I wonder if “fluffy” is a synonym for “explosive.”
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“We’ve gotta cut it,” I blurt at bedtime.
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With his one exposed eye he guards the red comb no one else is allowed to use. His eyes roll in their sockets when the strands tickle his nose. He’s constantly smoothing, plastering, twisting his hair behind his ears. He flicks his head up and left to rattle the quills out of his eyes. Middleborn has developed tics to deal with his hair. The twins think he looks like a Polish rooster. I think Middleborn looks like a tough misunderstood teenager in an ‘80s movie. “I look like one of the Beatles.”įirstborn tried to stifle a laugh but failed. “You’re starting to look like John Lennon.” “Man!” said Firstborn, sporting a military crop. Middleborn hid in an elm tree until the haircuts were over. Their happy scalps exhaled scents of leather and rain. Their eyes widened with the stretched periphery. Each boy in his turn teased the bathroom mirror while I sheared their aesthetic rebellion away thatch by thatch.Īs the fringe hit the floor, untanned horizons broadened along their hairlines. My firstborn son and young twins got haircuts last week. There could be anything in there: A chocolate.
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Middleborn’s bronze and copper quills plume like a nuke cloud and cascade down his skull, twisting into columnar ringlets behind his ears and dusting his shoulders with curled tendrils. It’s been months since my middle-born son had a haircut because he says he can feel his hairs crying when the clippers chop them. ***For All Things Wyoming, Sign-Up For Our Daily Newsletter***Īt this point, I’m too scared to cut my kid’s hair.