Since I was a wee kidlet, my hair has always been challenging. In early attempts to control the wild in me, my Mother grew it out and pulled it back in a simple, 1950's pony-tail. (With, of course, the appropriate bangs.) However, soon as I realized it got caught in tree limbs, underbrush, toybox hinges, old fashioned bed springs, and any zippers (on me or my siblings), I begged to be freed. When first grade approached, Mom had one set of twins and my younger sister to contend with. "Off with the pony-tail" seemed like an excellent idea.
Trouble was, Dad freaked. When his guy buddies at the garage kidded him about his "new son", Dad fumed home and told my Mother, that until my "Pixie cut" grew out, he was taking me nowhere...and also banned me from wearing "boys' dungarees" till I moved away--preferably into some other unlucky man's home. Mom, a 1950's era- over-burdened-with-kids-housewife, was mortified. It became the major battle of wills between us. (Only recently, at age 80, has she semi-retired.)
Of course, I had my "girly moments"; mainly in the social shark tank of High School--where I did travel and date and generally rub shoulders (and other naughty "parts") with the boys--but after months of "growing it out", I would wake up one random moment,with a long hair in my mouth and others across my eyes ,sweating from heat- exhaustion- of- the- head. Maybe it was remnants of a past life? Too young for menopause or night-sweats...I just couldn't stand it any longer. Off with her hair!
The local salon owner, who Mom had taken all of us to until the boys demanded "a real barbershop", was used to these "cut" scenes with me. They had standing orders, since that first shear lunacy of my original "Pixie Cut", to NEVER go that short again. Somewhere in the middle of Dorothy Hamill's famous "bowl" and the "pixie" were the waters we were treading. Sometimes they got it right. Sometimes, well, I got very studious and didn't come outside for a week or so. Of course there was always "the perm"--which in my case, came out of a pink and white "Toni" box and was administered by both Mom and Nana--Mom's Mom. (I don't even know if those kits are legal anymore...it's a wonder I don't have brain cancer...)Besides burning everything from my shoulders on up, I usually came out looking like a Brillo pad. Or worse. Then, as it grew out, it was okay. I actually envied girls with Carole King frizz. But, I could only handle the longer locks for a few months, and then...wham, bam, thank you ...well, you know the rest. Luckily, in the sixties and seventies, there was a lot of interesting head coverings around.
In the last year, I've let my hair grow out. Just a bit. As an adult, I've been nothing, if not creative in the hair department. Freed up from my East Coast restrictions, hair has been a major form of self expression. And while I am far from being as versatile as my African American friends, I have pretty much taken hair past the two-inch barrier in every possible way. Hey, I'm a painter. Of course there is color. (And "product". ) Forget the curls; now it was spikes and dreads and chunks and teenie-weenie braids. At one point, I had a "tail". But, because I'd spent the 80's dying it white then adding road hazard warning "tints", the brittle tail broke off in the hand of a nice guy who was trying to be cute and get my attention, by giving it a gentle tug, at a party... (Imagine his surprise...)However, in the last years of my life, I've been very, very (experimentally) short and spikey--adding to the prematurely whitened (out of fear) Irish genetics I carry. (Think "Billy Idol meets Mrs. Santa"...if you are old enough to remember either)You get the picture. But, since unemployment, I realize, I have to pull back and get a bit more conservative looking. My resume must match, minimally, my "image". Course, I'm an artist, and artists aren't great conservatives. Even if it is Hollywood.
I did try. Grew out the bangs (shades of childhood) and even the back. Almost as long as early Kate Gosselin. Went from white to a "pale natural blonde" and only spiked out every fifth strand. Then, began not to spike any of them. For about two days in six months I achieved "the look". I could pass. I knew it was having the desired effect when I started getting called "ma'am", at Starbucks, on Sunday morning.
That was the last straw. The warning bell. The cry for freedom. In my dream, I simply went monkish and shaved it all off. Hey, it's an Irish thing, right? Look at Sinead. (What happened to her, anyway?) Annie Lennox--well, how about Pink? When I woke up, I grabbed the scissors and, well, maybe not Brittany radical, but not Friar Tuck, either. I just reclaimed the kid my Dad refused to be seen in public with.
I'm not being called "ma'am" anymore--even got a "miss" at the grocery store, on Monday. The spikey, short and blondish, wild child rebel gets another few weeks of feeling "clean" and "grounded" and self-possessed. I may be poor, at this moment, but I'm still proud.
And, there's always my beanie.
I liked your hair in high school! :)
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