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.
Kindergarten. There are a few photos of
myself that I love. This is one of them.
Shortly thereafter, we find Dorothy Hamill in her
living room sorting Girl Scout cookies.
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.
I would've had the hippest hair around…
… if I had been a boy.
photo photo photo
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.
Perhaps I worked on this ‘do above just for the photo; perhaps I was on my way to school. It’s hard to know for sure. At the time, I would try anything. Except dyeing my hair.
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.
I’m sure my mom never noticed.
If mom ever said anything about my hair, I was planning to
blame it on these guys–my high-school buddies.
I mean, look at the hair here. Major peer pressure.
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.
Above: late college. Major: women’s studies. And the hair to prove it.
Exhibit D: The get-a-job years. Where the growing gets tough.
Our first year in Seattle. Slowly leaving the pixie cut behind.
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.
Sometimes I wore my hair down. (I like this picture of
me. I like this picture of Bretty even more.)
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'.)
Aaah, the wedding day. Long hair, curled
and flowing. As much as my hair can curl and flow.
Wedding’s done. Long hair, be gone! Or . . . not.
Exhibit E: The baby years. A hairdentity crisis.
In the time of baby Jack. Short.
In the time of toddler Jack. Medium. (This scarf was featured
in Quilts and More magazine; pattern here.)
Another perm? Really, Jenny, you should know better.
In the time of growing Charlie. Long.
Oh my goodness, I was so very pregnant.
It is so very nice to not be pregnant.
In the time of kid Jack, toddler Charlie. Short again.
These photos were taken for ReSew by a
wonderful photographer out of Southern Utah, Juanita B.
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.