Hair

Hair TightsIt amazes me when people rock the same hairstyle for 30 years. Nostalgia is good. When it comes to hair, however, in certain situations nostalgia is best left to a good themed party. I get an odd, unsettled feeling when I see teased bangs and a piggy back perm when I’m out to eat on a Saturday night…in 2013. It does something to the time setting in my brain, which, if you’re wondering, looks a lot like a Back to the Future dashboard. The numbers flip and flicker…there’s a minute of confusion. It makes me curious. How do they not wake up in the morning, take a look in the mirror and not accidentally think, “Life is pretty good! Love my new tracksuit, milk is a buck fifty and Ronald Reagan is president.”

It’s not a superficial thing. I’m all for self-expression. It’s a matter of currency. I see a mullet and my initial sentiment is: this person is stuck. Someone help them. Get a shovel. To me clothes and hair are like technology. It evolves and it changes. So we evolve, we change. [Said the girl with a flip phone. Yeah, yeah.] But even putting that aside, I am impressed that for 30 years they simply didn’t get bored. They saw something that worked and they ran with it. And not like a 400-meter sprint…like long distance, cross country running. Even people who manage the same hair for 5 years, I think, man, that is some discipline. So, for 20 years of my life it proved virtually impossible to leave my hair alone and let it grow out (I’m the 400-meter sprint person). Some girls had crap tons of boyfriends, I had crap tons of hairstyles. I love a different look for a different time. Plus, my hair grows fast. 400-meter sprint fast.

When I was little I probably would have had the patience (definitely the will) to grow out my hair, but my mother was incessant on the bowl cut. I have a haunting suspicion that she just didn’t want to deal with it…or me. Justifiably so. The few times I begged her to put my hair in pigtails, I believe I said ow 10 times and complained that she wasn’t doing it right. I can only conclude she was really looking forward to me as a teenager.

By nature I have always been good at adapting, though. Making do with what I had, despite what I didn’t. In the case of Tana, 3-year-old, adaptation was a pair of tights and a ponytail holder. Loooong, nylon locks. Tah-dah!
Sheer volume…matte finish…hair tights. L’Oreal. Because you’re worth it, kinda. [Cue above photo.]

I wanted hair so long I didn’t have to wear a shirt, just like Daryl Hannah in the movie Splash. (I had odd, very particular expectations.) Surprisingly 20-some years later I have nearly, and inadvertently, succeeded. I have reached this point by virtually not caring to take the time to get haircuts. Rather, I say, “I really need a haircut” daily for 3 months before actually calling and making an appointment. Now, instead of going to get my hair cut every 2 weeks, I go about every 4 months. I’m sure if dad knew, he would demand retribution for the 100 he had to pay for.

I realize as an adult that wearing my hair as a shirt isn’t proper social behavior. I also am aware that I am not a mermaid. But every time I pull my brush through or whip my pony tail back and forth (which I do often…for the sake of my 3-year-old self), I smile inside. It’s a sense of victory. Like I have finally achieved ridiculous-lots-of-hair status and it’s not made of something that almost constitutes underwear.
I am well on my way to becoming one third hair, by ratio and possibly weight. Holler.

It’s the little things.

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