Spring break is finally over for most school kids. I'm glad I'm not one of them. From what I see and hear, I couldn't hack the current sun-and-suds scene.

It's no secret that sleazy news organizations will go to any length to sell papers or collect eyeballs for TV ad revenue. Since they look for the most erotic, exotic stories they can find, maybe spring break is not as bad as portrayed.

I hope so. It's nice to believe that most of today's young spring breakers are going to church camps or giving puppies to homeless Haitian refugees. But from news reports, it looks like every boy is imitating a drunken swine and every young lady is auditioning for the next season of "Girls Gone Wild."

I've heard that for group relaxation, kids attend the "Get Naked for Global Warming Concert" sponsored by Jose Cuervo organic tequila.

If those things had gone on during my teen years, I would never have seen my 20th birthday.

My spring break experience was dull as dishwater, mostly because I never went to the beach or did anything remotely adventurous.

I was a band kid, and in Alabama, All-State band rehearsed during spring break week.

I was there three years in a row, playing scales in Tuscaloosa, while the cool kids were doing their best to make a $40 dollar beer-and-motel budget get them through a week in Panama City. (By the way, they said if you put 12 guys in one room, it was possible).

I wasn't jealous at all. I loved band and had a much better time making music than I would have had at the beach trying to look cool and pick up girls. But I did miss being part of the post-break tale-telling.

When the real spring breakers returned to school, they were full of stories about drinking cold beer and driving fast and eluding redneck cops while picking up hot girls and living (almost) in sin while getting really good tans and really bad hair.

The hair was the thing. Almost every guy who went to the beach for spring break poured peroxide on his hair until it turned an unnatural shade of white, yellow, or, in one case, light green.

The quality of the home-made hair jobs was in direct relation to the amount of beer consumed before the procedure, so results varied wildly.

One guy got so wasted he came back with his brown hair sporting dozens of white spots. He looked like a leopard. We thought it was cool. Teachers didn't, and he got a few extra days of vacation.

I was always jealous of the bleachedhair gang, and one spring I decided to peroxide my hair even though I was at home. I'm ashamed to admit that in exchange for her permission, my mother — who once owned her own hair salon — insisted on doing the work.

She did a great job, and I wound up looking like an anemic Q-tip. I was so embarrassed at my non-beach bleach job, I got a crew cut before school started back.

I haven't altered my hair since, although during a bleak period of personal despondence and business failure I considered growing a ponytail. Glad I didn't.

Either way, I'm happy I don't have to deal with spring break today. I feel sorry for the kids that do. On the bright side, it's been decades since I saw a young person come back from spring break with bleached hair.

Nowadays, they settle for tattoos. (Send your e-mail comments to: alex@ newnan.com)