In the early 70s I lived and worked in NYC. One day I had my long hair shaved off at a place, ironically called Captain Freedom’s. Two things happened: 1. Black men started noticing and nodding to me in the street. 2. White middle-aged men — who had most likely seen action in WWII Europe — stopped and stared at me with a look of fear and dread I had rarely witnessed before. I thought then — and know now — that I must have looked just like the women who had their hair shaved off during l’epurgation sauvage — and there I was on the sidewalks they used each day to get to and from work, a walking reminder to them of the horrors of World War II — and its aftermath.