When my mother saw me for the first time at the end of last semester, she didn’t lecture me about my grades, or how often I called or how well I did my job. Her greatest qualm was with one thing: my hair.

Indeed, my hair, which always remained cleanly cut when I was under her wing, hadn’t seen a barbershop for several months. It was curly, unruly and quite hard to tame. My mother was quite upset about this, and she reminded me all summer that I was to keep my hair in check when I returned to school.

I would roll my eyes, as she ran through her monologue for the fiftieth time, and think, “I’m 20 years old, and it’s my prerogative to do with my hair whatever I want.” I couldn’t see why it was such a big deal that my hair stay cut at all times. With classes and various other responsibilities to take care of, the state of my hair definitely went on the backburner.

I asked mother why she cared about my curly, stiff hair so much, and her answer was compelling. She pointed out that it looked better cut, I had many obligations and responsibilities that required me to look nice, and, most importantly, I put myself in danger of racial profiling if I didn’t keep my scruffiness away.

“Racial profiling? Really?” That would have been my response at a younger age. It’s the 21st century. People are past such juvenile distractions as treating people a certain way because of their appearance.

However, as I have gotten older, I’ve realized that I can’t give everyone the benefit of the doubt and assume that they see me as one of them. Perhaps at times, all black people have inklings or worries about racial profiling. And perhaps most of the time, these worries are really nothing to worry about.

Then, there are times when our worries seep into our reality. The nation was witness to this when Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. was arrested in his own home after he forced his jammed front door open.

Gates is an upstanding man, a nationally recognized professor and host of the PBS special “African-American Lives.” In his pictures, he wears suits, has a cleanly shaved beard and a nice, neat haircut. Yet he still dealt with the ignominy of being arrested because the neighbor thought he was a bad black man breaking into someone else’s home.

Anyhow, I kept my hair cut over the summer and vowed to keep it cut every time mother broached the subject.

My hair was cut to mother’s specifications in July when I arrived at the airport to catch a flight to Norman. I wore fitted jeans and a T-shirt that was the right size. I looked as put together as I could at 8 in the morning. I was flying on Southwest Airlines, and I stood by the proper pole, waiting to board the plane.

Without warning, a man thrust his ticket in my face and said, “Hey there Mr. President, six comes before nine. Get to the back of the line.”

I was already walking myself to the end of the line, swallowing nervously, before I fully realized what happened. Perhaps I had done wrong. But wait, there is no way to know what each person’s number is. I was simply standing next to the pole that said one through ten. And yet, this man had just mocked me and sent me to the back of the line.

I chose not to let the event get to me, and comforted myself in the fact that I had done nothing wrong. I couldn’t help those who were offended by my skin. Nor could I avoid such events merely by cutting my hair and wearing nice-fitting clothes. In fact, as I discussed the incident with my parents, one of the conclusions we came to was that my nice haircut and fitted clothes might have opened me up to discrimination.

If I had looked like a thug with an afro, baggy pants and a tall-T, the man might not have approached me. However, because of my clean appearance, the man had no fear of treating me rudely. I didn’t look like someone who would get violent.

Knowing this, I still got my hair cut like a good son this past weekend. Mother would be pleased. After all, I can only do it for her. Because, even though it is 2009, and even though the president of our country is half black; and even if I keep my hair cut and my clothes nice and decent, I still cannot avoid the sometimes negative experience of being a minority. The “change” that everyone is cheering for may slowly come, but many of us in this country still need a copy of the memo, and that is why I have brought all of this to your attention.