I have spent one-third of my life growing out my hair. One-third wishing for long hair. And the last third daydreaming of long hair. In my wide-awake state, I would see myself with masses of silky tresses in such abundance that they necessitated gathering up in one hand and tossing across my shoulder like a rising tsunami before I could lean in and take a sip from a drinking fountain.
In the second grade, my brown tights snugly pulled down over my scalp served as my long hair stand-in. When the tights were in the laundry from their multiple use, then it was on to a sepia-tone bath towel artfully twisted into a top knot so that I could work it as one of The Supremes. Which Supreme I was didn't matter because all three had hair and enough of it to pile on top of a head.
My life and my hair are a simple relationship: I have always wanted a lot of it.
Age 2: Here I am, trying to grow my hair out. Doesn't matter if I'm the one on the right or my brother is. We look the same.
(heyhey let's not talk about how kids were allowed to bounce along in the front seat, all right? dear LORD I hope my father is just parked for a cute photo opp and not actually DRIVING)
Age 3: Growing my hair out.
Age 4: Growing my hair out.
You know the rules, my brother and I are interchangeable. (finally learned to close my mouth)
Age 5: Growing my hair out, but thinking that maybe I can dance the time away while I wait.
Let's slap any old dress on and see if I can coax a tendril along.
Age 6: Still growing my hair out. Is it Alexandra? Is it her brother? Doesn't matter, the hair is still not there. For either of us.
But I'm giddy with hope that maybe Santa will bring the hair I asked for.
Age is Who cares I've got hair!
Age 18: Hair Nation continues and just in time for Flash Dance/Jennifer Beals lookalike contest.
An inch of frosted ice eye shadow placed on the lid directly over your pupil will make your eyes pop! Not look like a Martian like your jackass soon to be ex boyfriend says.
Age 30: I love having hair so much that I pay people to take pictures of it.
Pirate blouse borrowed from Jerry Seinfeld
Piles and piles of hair for miles! My bun is my lovechild.
Age 34: I started having babies. They snatched my husband bald headed and tore at my scalp like cats fighting off a bath. I had no choice at 2 o'clock one afternoon except for Great Cuts, only $9.99 on Tuesdays and doesn't it look like it.
Just give me something chopped. And flat. Maybe parted down the middle. PERFECT.
Age 42: I stopped having babies. For the next years, life will be a repeat of Ages 1-8: Trying to grow hair out.
Current State: Hair is grown out due to secret hair-encouraging diet!
Secret is Entemann's marble fudge cake. One piece daily.
Now along with wearing babies I can also wear my hair in a bun.
So glad I spent a third of my life growing my hair out so it could live on top of my head.Again...
Whoa! Ease up on that athletic hair band especially when you don't do athletics.
More secret hair growing recipe. This one is hair vitamin chocolate ice cream malt special.
Experimenting with a new bun style: I call this one the split bow.
My Abuela used to crack herself up with a joke she told. She never got through it without busting into cackles along with an awful lot of thigh slapping (her own). It went like this, “An old woman went to her hairdresser. When she got there, she told her ::gasp-chortle-snort:: “Cut my hair so I don't look like an old woman anymore!” So the hairdresser cuts it all off, stands back and says, ::sputter-choke-choke:: “There! Now you look like an old man!” *abuela passes out from wheezing*
It is because of that joke, that I will never cut my hair.
The hair shall grow wild, free, (except for the expert color they do at Clementine's omg) until the day I look like a witch in the woods.
Too late. Kids, go get mama's broom.
It's an old-fashioned Blog Hop! One topic: My Life in Hair, featuring some of the internet's finest. Click on the links below and see what they have to say about Their Life In Hair:
Shari Simpson of Dusty Earth Mother
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