Psychology Today | 08.08.2026 05:29
When I arrived at college as a freshman in 1984, I met Chloe. She had long curly hair, trailed patchouli wherever she went, and seemed to have an endless selection of flowy, Indian print skirts. She listened to the Grateful Dead, fretted about getting tickets to their upcoming shows, and hung out with the kids playing hacky sack on the green during the warm, golden autumn we had that year. Chloe was a Dead Head.
