In the past few weeks I've seen several posts on blogs I follow about new haircuts. Those posts reminded me of something:
Hey, I was gonna do that.
According to the date on my photo scans, I was planning to document my hair history back in 2009.
Got a new haircut last week.
Somehow it feels like the right time to use the photos I so meticulously scanned two years ago. Otherwise, it'd be an awful waste of computer memory.
With that, I give you my personal history. In hair. Mine is a journey filled with innocence and simplicity. With rebellion, lies, and deceit. With dangerous chemical abuse. With dozens and dozens of cases of cheap hairspray. (Seriously, cheap stuff only, please. I need it to work like glue.).
Here goes the long and short–and long and short, and long and short–of it. You'll see what I mean.
Exhibit A: The innocent years. With and without perms.
During my growing years, I begin to notice that genetics are going to assure me a lifetime of arrow-straight locks. Thin and limp? Envision a chewed-up piece of bubble gum stretched between two lamp posts. In an attempt to battle nature–and with mom's help–I try a perm. At home.
Yes. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the DO-NOT-TRY-THIS-AT-HOME home perm.
That's my sister Melainie in both shots above, and my old friend Cathy.
I love the bottom photo. Magically, with a home perm I can become
almost as handsome as my brother-in-law. We’re practically twins!
Luckily, home perms fall out of my hair as quickly as a toddler falls out of a tantrum when you give him a sucker.
And anyway, perms are out. Even though they were never in. Fancy feathering becomes all the rage.
At some point during my teen years, I decided to take hair matters into my own hands.
Exhibit B: The rebellious years. With and without bleach.
I wanted to dye my hair so very badly. But mom wouldn’t let me. So secretly, I started “dyeing” my own hair. With bleach. Just a secret spritz every morning from a trial-size spray bottle.
Now that I'm looking closely at the photo of my friends, I guess perms were in.
Somehow, my hair survived those years. It didn’t fall out, and I don’t think the bleach gave me cancer or anything. Yet.
Exhibit C: The college years. With and without politics.
Arm-wrestling a mannequin at the Utah Shakespeare Festival.
Above: early college. Major: education. When I cried the first time I taught a class because an 8-year-old called me a name, I decided teaching wasn’t for me.
Exhibit D: The get-a-job years. Where the growing gets tough.
Still short at my first Quilt Market as a copywriter
for Martingale & Company, but growing.
Three years later, we moved back to Utah. Hair can grow a lot in three years. I was growing it long for one reason. An impending wedding.
More often than not, though, I wore my hair up. No patience for fussing and flyaways. (Flanked by my gorgeous, now all-grown-up niece and nephew, top right. Both valedictorians and full-ride scholarshippers, yo! Okay, I'm braggin'.)
Wedding’s done. Long hair, be gone! Or . . . not.
Exhibit E: The baby years. A hairdentity crisis.
In the time of toddler Jack. Medium. (This scarf was featured
in Quilts and More magazine; pattern here.)
Oh my goodness, I was so very pregnant.
It is so very nice to not be pregnant.
I've pretty much worn the haircut above for the past two years. Until last week.
So that brings us back to present-day hair. What a long, confusing, indecisive journey it has been. But rather than confusing and indecisive, I prefer to call it "creative." Yes. A creative journey.
That's my hair story. And I'm sticking to it.
The other day, my sweet husband–who has always leaned toward liking long hair on me–said of my new haircut, "You look so cute. You look great with short hair. Yeah, keep the short hair."
Between the two of us, it's decided. Welcome back, pixie!
At least, for now.