At the age of fourteen, to the chagrin of my parents, I dyed my already bleach-blonde hair bright green. I did so not out of some misguided notion that the color was flattering for my skin tone (it wasn’t), but because after reading John Lydon’s autobiography Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs, and learning that green was the first color he had dyed his hair, I felt it was the only way forward with my life. Like so many newly-minted teenagers, I latched onto the Sex Pistols as soon as I heard the opening chords to “Holidays in the Sun.” I found myself enamored by the Pistols’ sneering postures, their declarations of absolute laziness, and with Rotten’s snotty, ragged voice. Believing I had found my calling, I formed a band with my best friend and did everything I could to sound more English.