In the 1970s, when I cut my hair about every five months, I was one of two US or Canadian citizens asked to step out of the bus on the way into Canada from New

In the 1970s, when I cut my hair about every five months, I was one of two US or Canadian citizens asked to step out of the bus on the way into Canada from New York state. The other guy had even longer hair. The Canadian border police asked me to open my suitcase, asked me about a bag of tea (Earl Gray) and didn't blink at the IRA newspaper I had picked up for laughs at Port Authority in NYC. On the way back into the US at Detroit, a bored agent gave me about five minutes of grief about whether I was in fact a US citizen. He pointed out that neither drivers license nor draft card proved my citizenship. I shrugged, and he waved me through. Since then, I haven't been hassled, though to be sure I've looked a good deal less scruffy.