Since people have been at home, there have been many Facebook discussions about what people’s hair looks like now. People who swore they didn’t dye their hair have been outed, the hippy long hair look abounds with men, and as the states reopen there’s a stampede for the barber shops and hair salons. It made me think about my hair, something I’d usually rather not do.
My hair is baby fine. When I was an infant, I was bald as an egg. That was before these cute baby hairbands so my mother would scotch tape a ribbon to the top of my head. No, really.
As I grew, my hair finally grew in, but it was so fine that my ears stuck out through it. Hairclips wouldn’t stay in. My mother said that when I was a little girl, there was a woman in our church with long, thick hair down to her rear. I loved it, and one day I said, “That’s how I want my hair to look when I grow up.” Mom said she just thought, “Oh, you poor child.”
|Age 5. My ears peeking through|
When I was six years old, I fell asleep with chewing gum in my mouth. When I woke up, it had migrated to my hair. Mom was thrilled. No ice or peanut butter in my hair for me. She panicked and cut it out. Then, she tried to even it up. Finally, we went to a stylist, who did what she could. People mistook me for a boy for months. Even the family dog didn’t recognize me.
|Age 6 at Easter, just after spilling juice on my dress.|
In early high school I got a perm to “Put more volume in my hair. “ Remember those old perms? The stinging, the smell, and the time it took to get them? And it fried one’s hair. No wonder it had more volume. It was like sticking my finger in a light socket. Annie was my favorite musical at one time. I came home after getting a perm and my poor father, thinking he was complimenting me, said, “You look just like Little Orphan Annie.” Not something a 15 year old girl wants to hear.
|Me during my albino phase|
And at one time, in high school, I had what wasn’t intended to be, but looked suspiciously like a mullet. Notice that picture is NOT included. Thank heavens for being a teenager before social media.
The summer before I went to college, my mother and I dyed my hair blond. Then we went to a hair stylist to have it fixed. But the hair stylist wasn’t exactly a genius at color, either. It just got lighter and lighter until it was quite fake looking. It washed me out. A couple of years later when I dyed it back, a guy friend of mine asked me why I had dyed my hair brown instead of leaving my hair its natural blond. College boys, eh? Their power of perception is amazing.
Now my hair is wavy, but not cute curly hair wavy. Just more like a series of cowlicks. My mother calls it “the Johnson wave” after her maternal side of the family. Once I used her hair stylist when my own was on maternity leave and the stylist started laughing. She finally said, “Man. It’s amazing. You have cowlicks in the same exact place as your mother.”
|I think our hair looks just peachy|
I still get my hair dyed reddish brown sometimes. I’m at the age where I don’t care if people know it’s not natural. I’m prematurely grey and right now I’m at that weird stage that is viewed as distinguished salt and pepper for men but is merely bleh for women. I had a chunk of it dyed blue, too, which was fun, but now I belong to a choir with more conservative requirements for hair color so I’ve had to let that go. The reddish brown is still okay, though. Hmmm. Maybe it’s time to call my hair styist…
|Time for a touch up|