Hair

A tribute to some great hairdos, both past and present. Let's enjoy them together, shall we?

I was your typical cute little girl until one day my mom decided she hated me and cut off my little brown pigtails and gave me...the bowl cut. She did the same to my younger sister too though, and forever more we were known as the twins--the ugly ones. Can you spot us, you know, the ones dressed like boys? Did I ever live down this identity/gender crisis? Let's see...

The answer to that would be no. This is me in my third grade school pictures. Now, to be fair I need to mention that my mom only cut my hair initially. I remember getting this heinous hair cut at a shop. I remember my mom telling the lady to make sure it was short, then leaving to run an errand next door, leaving behind my beautiful older sister (whose hair was always long and luscious) to keep an eye. I remember the barber lady ("beautician" doesn't apply here) pulling out the electric clippers and muttering to herself, "I wonder if this is short enough. Hmmm, maybe a little more...more...MORE...AHH-HA-HA!" as my sister's eyes got wider and wider in panic. Finally she stuck up for me and blurted out, "Stop! That's short enough!" I remember feeling the 5-o'clock shadow halfway up the back of my head as my mother curtly paid the bill with tightly pressed lips. She's always been the picture of tact and courtesy, but this time she didn't even say thank you. That's how I knew it was bad. Just look at me! What's with the sideburns?! (What's with the chocolate in my teeth? And the sweater, while we're at it!)

Now for a real treat. A later post will divulge where we spotted this gem of fashion, but for now it suffices to say it was a sweet and gratifying experience. My sister nicely put it when she said, "It's somewhere between Brave Sir Robin/Good Squire and Joe Dirt. I can't quite place it." Luscious and full in the back. Trim and tidy in the front. Throw in a beer, a chile dog and the local Douglas County Speedway races and you've got an award winner.

(Let's just say it was a photographic feat to get all the angles subtly. Well done, Chace!)

They say that abused children will often have a tendancy to hurt animals. I believe that idea is applicable. This is me on a sailing trip in Greece, where the man I was staying with, Peter, asked if I could give him a trim. Sure I can, Peter. There's one hair cut I know very well. The top photo is me trying

hard to overcome my past. The bottom one is me having failed and openly cackling about it. (P. S. He did not throw me off the boat for this hair cut. That was my first real lesson in charity.) Let's move on to happier things.

Nothing says "lesbo" like this one (thank you David, for pointing this out). Me in my later short-hair days, at girls camp in North Carolina, while I was there working for the summer in the NCSU soil science lab. Don't ask me any questions. I'm not answering (and yes, I did help start the mud war). And my favorite! My brother, David, and his wonderful, awesome haired, clogging wonder wife, Kathryn. Note: This is all REAL. All I did was brush through her amazing mane and, voila! Poor sister, I'm always asking if I can brush her hair. Can you blame me? My brother even has a pretty impressive afro when he puts his mind to it. Alas, something about having to look reputable for work seems to get in the way of his afro dreams. I hope if you, friendly reader, have any complaints about your hair this post will make you feel grateful. Or perhaps it's given you some good ideas. Who knows?