When I was little, Mom used to cut my hair and bangs. My bangs were never even. They were always too short, and all I wanted was long hair. My sisters both liked short hair but I wanted to look different from them! I mean I already did with my olive skin, chocolate brown hair and eyes and them both with blond hair (one with straight, and one with curly) . Both of them had blue eyes, but I needed more!
In 6th grade (which was still part of elementary school), I got a “Shag” haircut and in my mind, this hair transformation was to assist me in looking “cool”. It did not. I ended up, looking just like David Cassidy a la his “Partridge Family” days. Not the look I was going for at all!
We did not have a blow dryer at home, like they did in the salon (those were still rather novel in the early 1970’s for households). We had the bouffant enhancing “cap attached to hose, attached to a motor-hope this thing doesn’t over heat and catch on fire” hair dryer at our house. (Did you know, that if you detach that hose, put it up to your mouth, and wave the rest of it around your head in a circle and make the siren sound that it annoys the hell out of everyone in earshot? So fun)
Back then, I would wash my hair every morning, only because the amount of my scalp oil was reminiscent of the Exxon Valadez oil spill . Then I would let it dry on its own. The Shag, requires something more than this laissez faire approach and most days, I just looked like an escapee from a mental hospital from the days of yore with my too short bangs, one side of my hair curling slightly up, one side down, and no feathering action what so ever.
By 7th grade, it had mostly grown out and I was on my way to long hair again. This seemed a safe way to go. I really wanted to look like Ally McGraw but the homemade dresses, knee socks and corrective saddle shoes (due to my knock knees) just weren’t achieving the look I really wanted.
Mom was very particular about what we wore. We were the children of a military officer and therefore, in her mind, would not wear pants to school, even when the law finally allowed girls to do so. (Yes, that’s right, there were laws, that forbade girls from wearing pants to school until the early 1970’s)
I decided to take matters into my own hands to look different, and get rid of my bangs. I was not ready to wait the year it would take to do so, so on the morning of my decision, I wet my bangs with water, used a generous glob of Mom’s Dippity Doo ( which was meant to use with curlers to make the bouffant “hold”), and a whole lot of bobby pins to hold my bangs off to the side.
I came down stairs for breakfast, and all conversation came to a halt. Dad hadn’t left for work yet, took one look at me and said, “What’s going on with your hair?”
This little, innocent comment, sent my 12-year-old self-weeping into the bathroom, ripping out the bobby pins with Mom calmly saying, “Time for school-just blot your bangs dry with a hand towel”.
Oh, Mom, you constant source of calm. How I underestimated her strength…it takes way more strength to be calm in a storm than to blow your top.
Well, I would spend many more years messing with my hair. Perm upon perm, in attempts to get my straight hair to look like Earth Goddess with curly locks, having it buzz cut into a punk do, self-cutting it and looking like 80’s Superman Margo Kidder’s, Lois Lane.
Curling iron, hot rollers, trying to wing it back like Farrah Fawcett and a slight humidity in the air upending all my efforts, sending one side of my hair forward and one side out. No one would mistake me for Farrah Fawcett, but perhaps a “Don’t” with black rectangle over the eyes like in Mademoiselle (or was it Glamour?) magazine.
I didn’t stop my hair messing until my daughter was four and she asked me (as I was highlighting my own hair in the bathroom), “Oh Momma, don’t you think you’re pretty enough?” Whew! Powerful, and it was the moment I stopped, and let it turn silver, and grew it long again.
Acceptance. I realized that I was not enjoying my hair. I was trying to morph it into something to be someone I was not. Stop the madness. I’m mean not saying walk around looking like a disaster area. I am a believer in hair products to bring out our best selves, kind of like oiling leather to bring out the richness, the patina…bring out your own patina. Self-care allows you to carry yourself proudly, cleanly, “you-ly”. This is me. Silver hair-I Care…about what I want!
Your Turn! Drop me a comment below and tell me YOUR hair story. I love people’s adventures. Thank you!
Oh Mary, I love the voiceover!!! You have an amazing storytelling voice!
I absolutely love listening to you read your story! Marvelous! Oh the “hair isn’t right” days! It started with a pair of scissors and a desire for bangs. Something different. Of course, that would make swooping my hair back in a ponytail or three pigtails (my mom’s favorite) somewhat difficult without the use of bobby-pins and a prayer! But not today! No, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I got the scissors and began my own creative expressions! Oh, it felt good. Proud of myself, I walked downstairs waiting for the praise to come pouring forth. “Did you cut your hair?” My mom’s question seemed to take forever; each word punctuated with an exhalation. Immediately I regretted my decision and, of course replied, “No.” Look, you just can’t go from hair that’s 5” long to barely an inch (on one side) without it being noticeable. I don’t remember much after that. It wasn’t until high school that I was confident enough to experiment with different styles, sans cutting!