We took trains down to the very bottom of Spain, and finally reached the Straits of Gibraltar. Our goal was, of course, every hippie's goal during that romantic era– the enchanted, exotic, ancient land of Morocco.
But as we approached the border crossing, we kept hearing strange rumors. They weren't letting any more hippies into the country. Could all our travels be in vain? I mean, let's face it, we did look pretty much like hippies.
As I stood face to face with the Moroccan border guard, he took one look at me, a scruffy, unshaven, long-haired American kid, and said, "no hippies". I had to think fast.
In my broken French, (in what was, till then, the only really useful result of all my high school French classes) I said "si je vais couper mes cheveux....?" (if I will cut my hair...?). And he seemed to say, it's possible.
So right there in the parking lot, I borrowed someones scissors, and using a car window as a mirror, I cut my hair. Hell, I'd come all that way and there was no way they were gonna keep me out of Morocco. Amazingly, it worked! They let me in! And my wonderful Moroccan adventure began.
(to be continued.....)