Monday, July 14, 2008

The Story of How I Ended Up With a Fe-Mulle-tino

Before I left for Iowa I got a haircut and lopped off a good ten inches of my hair, ending up with a pretty snazzy little bob. If you find a recent picture of Gwyneth Paltrow it looks like her latest cut. Getting a haircut was difficult for me. It had been since December since I even had a little trim and by late June I looked like I was about to audition for the FLDS polygamist cult. What is up with those women's hair by the way? I know they can't cut their hair, but I don't think the Bible has any passages referring to foot high bouffants and french braids. Those bouffants really get me. Everytime I see those women on TV I can't even concentrate because the hairdos get me all worked up and confused and I can't think of anything else but why they do their hair that way and how they get it to stand up like that and why they all have to have the exact same style. I find that perhaps even stranger than a man having 87 wives. I mean, I can understand completely how a man would justify that, but I just don't comprehend why those 87 wives all need that stupid hair. I just looked it up and this girl's article kind of explains it. Apparently they think that high hair makes them look different from each other. Someone needs to tell them that's not quite working out as planned.

In any event my hair looked a sight. It was long and ratty on the ends and had a skunk stripe of white painted from my forehead back to my right ear. Still, I procrastinated the haircut. There were several reasons.

The first reason was that the guy who cuts my hair is expensive and he does my sister's hair and I see him all around town so he would know if I cheated on him and I would feel evil. Plus, no one does color like this guy. I save up to go to him.

I was pissed at him though. He likes my sister more than he likes me so I'm wildly jealous. He likes her because she goes drinking with him and I don't drink which makes him mistake me for being prim and conservative so whenever he does my hair he's all professional. Then my sister'll come back from his salon with all sorts of outrageous tales of debauchery that he told her and I feel like I got ripped off. For instance, the last time she got her roots done he told her this very involved tale about a man who identifies himself as straight who goes to the anonymous gay sex beach and pays strangers to pee on him. I just think it's deeply unfair that I don't get to hear stories about people who like to be peed on. And all because I don't drink. I've got news for Mr. Hairdresser - drinking has little to do with one's inner freakiness and I am about the farthest thing from conservative. The next time I get a touch-up on my color I expect to hear about some golden showers, or at the very least something involving some light bondage.

But those weren't even the main reasons. Really, I have a slight phobia of cutting my hair, and even though it's shorter now, it honestly isn't drastically different. Since I was about fourteen my hair has been consistently straight and side parted. Once when I was eighteen I temporarily lost my good senses and let a drunken super-model cut bangs (she was my room-mate, I wanted to be cool and chic like she was) and I had to spend a year growing out the disaster than resulted. No one told me that girls with perfectly round faces can't pull off bangs. Since then however, my hair has been different lengths, but it's always been one length, bang-less and straight. It parts on the side but every now and then I'll get crazy and actually part it in the middle. The truth is, I just don't like to jack around with my 'do. It's way too dangerous.

My hair phobia began when I was eleven and it's all my mother's fault. God bless her, but she's squarely to blame for this neuroses. Ironically, she has the same problem, and her hair phobia is a million times worse. She rarely gets a professional cut and her color is Nice & Easy. She says she doesn't like to cut her hair because when she was little Memere Marie made her wear a boyish pixie cut with razored bangs less than an inch across her forehead. All she wanted was long hair, so now that she's grown, by God she has long hair. How strange is it then that when her mother forced a dreadful haircut on her that she turned right around and did the same thing to me? Except instead of a pixie cut, which might have looked mod and gamine, my mother forced upon me a mullet of the very worst kind which was neither mod nor gamine and could only be described as severe white trash.

The mullet is one thing if the person with it actually wants their hair to look like that, and I'm assuming that they do. Individuals who actually like the short on top long in the back or the STLB for short, can really rock the mullet in the right circumstances. It takes a special kind of confidence of course. The kind of confidence that comes from a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon enjoyed at the State Fair in between the Travis Tritt concert and the stock car races. I'm just not that kind of girl.

When I was eleven, pre-mullet, I moved to Riverbank, New York to live with my parents. After a long fight my mother, who had lost custody of me when I was a baby, finally got me back. The problem was that I had been raised in Millpond, which my mother viewed as hopelessly lacking in style. She was in denial about her own lack of style. This was in 1985. The mullet was taking over America in various incarnations. Every demographic had it's own interpretation of the STLB, from the swooping Flock of Seagulls, New Wave mullet, to the more subtle, Sun-Inned mullets sported by Jamz wearing lifeguard types. The mullet was everywhere in the mid-80s. Back then it wasn't just a staple of rednecks, banished to the dirtiest recesses of the trailer park. The mullet was mainstream definitely, but it wasn't particularly classy.

New Jersey mall girls and the tackiest Japs all adored variations on the mullet in 1985. These girls really made the style their own by spiral perming the long part and teasing and spraying their bangs to heights which seemed to defy the laws of physics. I often used to joke that New Jersey had its own hole in the ozone layer from all the aerosol hairspray used by its residents, both male and female (remember Bon Jovi? In 1985 every lowlife in Jersey wanted to look like Jon).

My mom looked to the Japs for style. I forgive her for this. She didn't know any better because she too was from Millpond. She looked up to upper middle class jewish people and believed that because they had money and lived in big Tudor houses on Long Island that they knew what was in style. Having a redneck weakness for anything sparkly or studded, she loved the Japs' bejewelled, acid-washed jean jackets, their puffy painted sweatshirts and stirrup pants worn with rhinestone encrusted sneakers. Like the Japs I think my mom mistook embellishment for expensive and expensive for classy. I knew otherwise.

Real rich people were preppy and understated. They wore Izod shirts with the collars flipped up, rugby shirts, argyle sweaters. Rich girls skipped around in keds or kilts (but God forbid not at the same time) and they wore their hair long or bobbed and often with bangs they curled under neatly with a curling iron. Sometimes they wore thin headbands or barettes of big, velvet bows. As this was 1985, the big lace collar and the Laura Ashley, drop-waisted, calico dress were also quite popular with the truly wealthy. Those Japs were new money but a girl in a Lands End turtleneck was old money, country club material and that's what I wanted to be.

That's how the popular girls in Millpond dressed. Their fathers were doctors or big landowners around town. They were preppy, wore starter strings of pearls and would die before they'd get a perm or a mullet. I wanted to be like them.

Riverbank wasn't much different. The town is still home to some of the stuffiest WASPs in New York afterall and those who don't live there have definitely strolled Main Street for antiques on the weekend at least once. Riverbank's elite were also ripped from the pages of the preppy handbook. My mother didn't get it. She interpreted these people as nerds and frumps. She equated the preppy look I desperately longed for as backwards and old fashioned and everything she hated about Millpond and blamed my preference for prep on having been raised in Millpond and not for miraculously being the only person in the history of our family born with good taste. She decided that to celebrate my liberation from the hick town that I needed a serious makeover and she modeled me after the Long Island Japs that she considered stylish and wealthy.

I didn't love the stirrup pants and the Camp Beverly Hills sweat shirts. Keds would have been better than the pink and grey, high top, LA Gear sneakers that were as quilted as moon boots, but I supposed I could live with it since my mother relented and bought me a strawberry scented Swatch. Honestly, I would have gone to school in my training bra and panties if it meant I could have that Swatch. I used to sit in Life Science and sniff it. I wore it until the frosted pink band turned yellow and it had long since lost its sweet smell.

But my mother didn't stop at the leggings and oversized shirts. She hated my hair. It was long and straight with flat blangs that wouldn't lie straight, but split greasily in the middle and I'll admit I was definitely in that awkward ugly stage pre-puberty. My hair was ugly, but so was everything else on me. The cutest haircut in the world wouldn't have helped significantly because I just wasn't a pretty girl at that age.

I know that my mother meant well. She wanted me to start off the 7th grade at my new school, Riverbank Junior High, looking slick. After all, I had a blank slate. No one knew what a hopeless loser I had been in Millpond. No one knew my nickname was Horsehead or that I was branded a "Scum" by the popular girls in my hometown. I could make a new start. I could even be a popular girl here and put all that small town bull shit behind me. It's just that my mother thought the Japs were popular here and discounted the power, built up over generations, of the old money WASPs. If she really wanted me to be popular she would have done better dialing up L.L. Bean, but bless her heart she just didn't get how hiking clothes could ever be more desirable than a turquoise fringed shell suit.

Shell suit firmly zipped (with matching, oversized slouchy socks) I still needed a new hairdo, my mother insisted. But here's the thing. Although my mother really wanted to emulate her idea of wealth, we didn't have a lot of money at all back then. We rented a house from some Indian people and it was a nice house, but we couldn't even afford furniture. I know it had been a struggle to buy me those new clothes and that Swatch and we had to be frugal so I couldn't go to a fancy salon. But a haircut is a haircut, my mother thought, and if you tell the stylist what you want it ends up the same whether you pay a hundred dollars for it or twenty-five. Right?

Riverbank had a poor section of town. My grandfather sold watermelons in the public housing sections so we were all familiar with the low income side of the tracks. There was a thriving Puerto Rican community in town and they were friendly and good customers to my grandfather's produce peddling. He and my mother called them "Porta-Rickans." My mother, also a peddler, knew of a beauty shop and took me there for my makeover.

Now you may know that the Latino community has always enthusiastically embraced the mullet, often taking the style to new and more extreme lengths. They just really took the mullet and ran with it and back in the 80s no Latino male would go out of the house without his perfectly moussed mullet, curls glistening black down to the high, tight waist of his parachute pants. The length and height of the mullet back then was truly the measure of the Latino man. Latino women too adored the style, theirs differing little from the male version except perhaps in the ruffles and frills of bangs.

Many of the Puerto Rican residents of Riverbank did not speak English, but we were lucky enough to find a stylist who knew a few words. I sat in the swiveling chair and Imeldys, the hairdresser, snapped the vinyl cape around my neck and spun me towards the mirror. Her own mullet, dyed marroon, sparkled under the flourescent lights.

"Make her in style," my mother said, "Make her look hot!"

Imeldys nodded.

"I want her to have a spiral perm," my mother added.

Imeldys and her assistant began rolling my long hair tightly in rows and rows of skinny curlers which snapped shut with black rubber elastics. My scalp prickled and pulled and then they doused my head in strong chemicals which smelled like skunk and cat pee and floor cleaner. The chemicals ran down the back of my neck as I steamed under the hot dryer wearing a plastic shower cap and every inch of my head itched and reeked and fumed from the permanent wave solution. I was terrified that when they unravelled my hair that it would have all dissolved and would fall out in clumps, but looking back, that may have been better.

Imeldys rinsed the perm solution from my hair and set to work shaping my new, wet curls, which hung in perfect ringlets, into the "hot" "in-style" look my mother requested. She snipped and sheared. I couldn't see and looked to my mother who pursed her lips and nodded in silent approval. And then Imeldys turned on the electric clippers. She buzzed and shaved. I knew no good could come of this. No hairstyle that I wanted involved buzzing and shaving, so I began to protest.

"No! Let her finish. Hold still. You can't stop her halfway through!" my mother said.

I cried silently, trapped in the stylist's chair, knowing that something terrible was happening to my head and that I was powerless to stop it. The results were worse than anything I could imagine. After blow-drying, teasing, curling with a hot iron and extensively spraying, Imeldys revealed my new look and I began to sob uncontrollably, which upset her. She was proud of her creativity and had done some of her best work.

My hair, while still long and now frizzed out with wooly curls in the back, was less than an inch long on top. These short wisps were spiked and gradually got longer as they neared my forehead. I had no bangs to speak of. Even if I had tried to paste down some of the spikes they wouldn't have created an impressive fringe. My hair was so short on top that you could see the white criss-crosses of my scalp. The sides were worse. The hair above my ears was shorn down, velvety smooth as the head of a marine in boot camp. Imeldys has wielded her buzzer artistically, not merely stopping here. She had shaved bare, 3 thin, parallel, straight lines symmetrically on each side over my ears, so not only did I have half of my head shaved, I also had patterns running through the micro-millimeter that was left of it. My hair cut and perm was too horrible to bear.

"It's adorable!" my mother exclaimed.

She said I would be the most popular girl in school. I was cool. I had spiked hair! This haircut was hot and wild. The problem was that I wasn't hot or wild at all. I was shy, reclusive, bookish and timid. I couldn't rock a Puerto-Rican mullet by any stretch of the imagination. Most of my life I just wanted to blend in and not be noticed. I never wanted to draw attention to myself, but with this haircut that was impossible. People stared at me in public, probably wondering what awful parent could do that to a child. I began to try to come up with excuses and thought maybe I could say I had been in a bad fire that had burned off most of the top and sides of my hair and had burned three symmetrical lines above my ears. Maybe I could say it was a lawnmower accident. It looked like a lawnmower accident. I considered angling for sympathy because I definitely thought I deserved it, by saying I had brain surgery and my hair was finally growing back. A surgeon would have probably done a classier job than Imeldys though. Or, I could just say I was Puerto Rican. Unfortunately I couldn't even say "Hola" even though the Puerto Rican clique in school would have been the kindest to me in my shorn state.

Kids teased me. It was worse than Millpond because here I was the new girl AND a freak on top of that. I just couldn't win. I tried everything to mash my hair flat but most days it knotted and tangled, smashed in some places and stuck straight up in others. I made no efforts to style it and just prayed it would grow out. By that summer it had progressed enough that I could cut the back short enough to meet up a little closer to the top and sides. It would be almost two and a half more years before it all evened out and began to retain some semblance of a respectable hairstyle and when it finally did I declared absolutely that this would never happen again, and it hasn't, except for the brief foray into bangs sixteen years ago, which will also never happen again.

I wish I had pictures for you, but I was so hideous and so ashamed of my appearance that few pictures, if any, actually exist of the catastrophe. I ran from cameras until I was about seventeen because I wanted no record of my ugliness. Now though, I kind of wish I could find a picture of it just to laugh at, just to show you that something so awful actually happened. Maybe when I get home I'll search the boxes of old pictures and see if there's even a glimpse of the world's worst mullet, but I doubt there is.

In the meantime, check out Mullet Junky. Look under femullets and mulletinos and you can at least get a good idea of how it looked.

Feel free to share your own hair disaster tales in the comments section. Bad hair makes for some of the most hilarious stories ever. Better yet, extra credit for posting pictures of your own hideous coiffures on your own blogs. Link back to me or alert everyone in my comments section so we can all go see it and commiserate and so I know you did it and don't miss out. I know I'm not alone here. I know some of you all had mullets too.


Angela said...

I'm from Iowa City! :)

Head downtown to the bar called "The Deadwood" and have a beer! I was going there at age 16 (1984)!

Then go across the street to the Dublin Underground. The owner Ruadhri ("Rory" -- his parents are from Ireland) is my exbf -- awesome guy. If you tell him that his exgf Angela reads your blog and sent you there, he will be tickled pink and buy you a beer. If his from TOm is working, well... have fun. Tom is a complete prick and compulsive liar. So mess with his head for a bit. For me.

Good times, good times.

I'm in the Twin Cities now, but I will always be an Iowan! :)

Anonymous said...

I have no idea why I did this, but a few girlfriends and I had a sleepover when I was a teen, and we were messing with each others hair. I had mine put into a sleep up-do, which lookewd great except a few stray strands kept slipping I CUT them, right to the scalp with scissors. The updo looked terrific... of course when I took my hair down, I had a few missing chunkcs of hair where I had once had bangs... so I ended up having like 1 inch bangs for several weeks right before school started.... lol... learned a lesson.

S. said...

I had a swatch, too! I loved that thing. Every time I catch a whiff of the smell (some girl products smell similar) I remember my swatch.

My worst haircut story involves a short-hair bob gone badly. See, I used to have this short (well, at about chin-length) haircut when I was a little child, and it was cute back then because my hair was perfectly straight and the bangs looked adorable on my 8-year old self.

However, my hair changed during puberty. The hormones made it turn puffy and wavy. That hair-transition time was when I decided to get my hair cut to chin-length again and BOY WAS THAT A MISTAKE. I was Mushroom Head for a few months. I don't know what possessed me to do such a thing or why my parents didn't stop me. It was too short to pull it up, and I was too young to know how to style it (I hadn't even heard of hair-straighteners back then), so I was reduced to walking around with a mushroom on top of my neck for a while.

I've grown my hair since and have never cut it above shoulder length again, and that's how I've found looks better. As for that horrible time, I just try not to look at pictures of myself from back then.

Chris (dippy chick) said...

It's so funny... when I read your blog you sound so much like me. I swear we're sisters that got separated or something. I even have freakishly small feet for my height! (I'm 5'7" and wear a size 7, whereas my sister is like 5'4" and wears an 8 1/2.) I never had a monkey, but I did grow up on a small farm and had a pet sheep and some geese, and a chicken named Virgil that rode my handlebars while we delivered eggs around the nieghborhood. Did you have a bike-riding chicken? Virgil was a girl chicken by the way.

I can totally relate to the whole alcohol thing. I've never been drunk even once in my life. Part of it is because my parents both drank, and I just don't like how they (namely my mother) were when they drank, but mainly it's because I am alcohol intolerant. I can't have 2 sips without my head starting to spin! It's really pathetic. I am no prude however. I lived in Hollywood, CA and South FL. One sees too much to be a prude! You know that! :)
As for the hair stylist - I know a good color guy in WPB. I used to work as a nail tech (before my careers as a graphic designer, realtor and dippy chick) and the salon I worked for was the best at color. The owner has all sorts of stories of debauchery and I'm sure he'd tell you some if you asked. He hangs out with strippers, and I ended up doing big, long-assed acrylic nails for most of them. The good thing is that they tipped well because they also worked for tips. :)
I bet your hair is cute! I haven't heard anyone younger than me use the word "snazzy". Too funny!

Anonymous said...

I'm kind of an artistic, flower child kind of person. When my Hubby and I were engaged, I had long, flowing, one length hair. I went to a very expensive stylist three days before my wedding just to get it trimmed, no changes, just TRIMMED. Well, the stylist picked up a section of my hair from the front and instead of trimming the edges, she cut a 8 inch hunk out, suddenly giving me microbangs.

I'm like you you. I have a rounded face. But now, for the rest of my life, I will be the round face bride with hideous microbangs. I still can't stand the pictures 14 years later.

SoozieQ said...

First I feel your pain with your mother dressing you. My mother SWORE vests were the most in thing ever, especially if they had little wooden dangling animals on it. I spent many hours sobbing in dressing rooms begging her to let me buy something else.

As for the haircut. I have a couple of stories, but the main one is my friend used to trim my hair for me. She always did a good job until she tried to do layers. It was so bad that I had to let her cut it all off, it was so bad that my waist long hair had to be hacked off up to my chin. I am not a girl who looks good with a bob at all. It took months before my hair looked ok again.

Anonymous said...

My sister had something in the 80's that she referred to as the "Shaved Elvis Mohawk Bouffant."
I have photos of that particular hairdo and it still makes me smile.
I think hairdressers were on some sort of narcotic during the 80's---don't remember a good "do" at all during those days!
You make me smile with these stories and stir up lots of memories!

Anonymous said...

My bf was logged into his google account on this computer when I posted and I think I may have accidentally posted under his blogger ID. If that is the case could you please post this one instead and delete the first one? Thanks, appreciated!

I used to watch WKRP in Cinncinati like an addict as a tween. I was fascinated by Loni Anderson's hair. So for my 12th birthday, I BEGGED my mom for a haircut like Loni's as a birthday present.

We lived in a small town where the "shopping district" consisted of about 1/8 mile stretch and had about 6 small businesses. One of the them was a beauty salon, so my mother took me there instead of to a mall which whould have been about a 20 minute drive.

The only hairdresser working on that Saturday morning looked like she was about 17 years old, pregnant and had a cigarette dangling out of her mouth when we walked in. I should have run awya then, but I was young and didn't know any better.

I was just excited that I was going to get hair like Loni Andersons! I would be HOT and all the boys would love me. I would spend my time gazing into the mirror loving my own hair, and possibly getting high off smell of the hairspray used to hold the style in place.

The hairdresser girl sat me in her chair and asked me what I wanted and I told her. She glanced skeptically at my mother who was waiting for me, and then proceded to tell me that you had to be over 18 to get THAT haircut, but she knew a haircut that would be perfect for me and the haircuit I wanted was too high maintainance and would require trims ever 3-4 weeks. I rolled my eyes, but had little choice but to go along with whatever she had in mind at that point. Personally I don't think she knew more than one way to cut hair.

For the hairdresser girl, it was perfect. As, at that time this cut was in demand for both men and women. For me, it was a nightmare. The haircut? The dreaded Mullet of course. I decried this haircut and cried furiously when I saw it, so she did eventually modify mine a little. The front ended up looking more like a Charlies Angel's era Farra Facette.

I never did manage to learn to properly style it and as a result, the feathering stuck out in random places and my failed attempts to tame it with generous quantities of hairspray ended up making it look ratty and unclean. Definitely not the best hair season for me.

Anonymous said...

Having a very round face with a widow's peak makes for very bad hair cuts. My mother hated my hair and was either giving me perms or taking me places to let others give me perms, where they cut my hair off very short so I looked something like Pat from SNL with breasts. One soul scaring time it was so short, so frizzy curly I put on my mothers wig; a short straight black and blonde frosted monstrosity that women who were going gray would wear. Waiting to get on the school bus I had to listen to two boys talk about how much it must cost to make hair look so ugly. My mother didn't just getting me hair dos like a 40 year old woman she dressed me like one also. At a new school I had students walking up to me, saying, "Ma'am, where is the . . ." and in high heels. She didn't approve of any of the fashions and had a tendency to put my chubby body in horizontal stripes. I had people ask me why I dressed this way. It wasn't fun to be me. It still isn't.

Anonymous said...

Oh my gods, the mother-inflicted bad hair stories. I've got a ton of 'em. I have thick, straight, fine textured hair. I am the only person in my family with this hair. My sister and mother have thin, fine textured hair, my father has none to speak of.

My mother's hair nightmares for me included the following:

Age 3-and-a-half: A bowl cut, literally. She put a bowl on my head and cut around it.

Age 5: A modified bowl cut, with the added injustice of bangs.

Age 8: My first perm. By my mother. Using her hair rollers. Do you know what happens when you put thick, fine textured hair into the smallest perm rollers you can find and then put home perm solution on it? Instant white girl afro. And it was reddish. My mother dressed me as Little Orphan Annie for Halloween.

Age 13: The dreaded mousse mullet. Another bad perm from my mother, resulting in nasty poodle curls. What made it worse is that in emulating my older sister's vigorously Sun-In'ed locks, I dyed my entire head peroxide orange, frying it beyond hope. I would then take HUGE clots of cheap mousse and run it through the sides of my hair, changing that hair's color to a dark brownish orange and pasting the hair down the sides. Apparently, I didn't know what a barrette was at 13. Maybe it was some kind of mental block from the beribboned monstrosities on the market at the time.

Age 15: More poodle perms, this time inflicted on me at my mother's urging by a gum-cracking, chain-smoking, brilliantly ginger haired hair dresser at a small-town Fantastic Sam's. The end result was not fantastic. It was horrifying. By this time I'd dyed my hair black, so it at least wasn't orange, but the rest of it was so bad that I kept it pinned down and in a ponytail until I could get it cut into a respectable chin-length bob. I had the remaining hair under the bob shaved off to the skin to get rid of the evidence of my former hairstrosity.

These days I wear my hair in variations of either a bob or a short, choppy style that can be grown out into a bob. Like you, I learned my lesson when it comes to hair.

Elise said...

Ha, okay, I'm game. Here are my best blogged hair disaster stories:

Part One

Part Two


mary said...

My current hairstylist refuses to give me bangs (which is why I still go in), he let me have a couple of wisps last year, but that was it.
I'm 34 (guessing to be around your age) growing up I did have a couple perms-none of them attractive, but I never had the majesty of a spiral perm. Just some really fluffy bangs. And MAY-BE I made a really bad decision to use peroxide at home- orange hair looks good on NO-ONE.

Anonymous said...

Oy. The hair stories I could tell. See, I have thick curly hair. And my mom has baby fine straight hair. Which means she blew it straight for the first few years of my life. Then let me get a pixie that turned out more like a crew cut at ten ("your son reminds me of our neighbor" was one of the kinder comments I got on it). Then I wanted to grow it out, which equalled "blooming onion" bangs and a mullet, plus a perm (on natrually curly hair). Then a bob with the bangs. And finally, something like hair normalcy.

I think the woman secretly laughed about my hair when I wasn't looking. She had to, right? Oh, and my middle school nickname- Shrub.

faded said...

Your story reminds me of what my father used to do to me when I went to high school. It was an all boys Catholic high school that required a coat and tie every day. You could select your own coat and tie.

My father would take me down to the local men's shop and pick out my cloths for me. An example was, light brown pants with a light brown button down shirt. The he added a white cashmire blazer and brown and white polka dot tie.

My mother insited that I wear agyle pattern socks with it.

Reb said...

Oh, you are all gonna hate me! Mom used to wrap our hair around her fingers to make ringlets and then when I was about 6 or 7 talked us into the pixie cut. I haven't looked back since. My sister let her hair grow out. My brother has been my hairdresser most of my adult life and except for once when he was learning to colour (I got really thick streaks) I haven't ever hated my hair. I also have never had a mullet.

Of course, since my brother is no longer near enough to have him be my hairdresser, I have had some questionable cuts, but it grows so fast, who cares. I haven't had it cut since the chemo bald, but, I am going in this week.

Beverly said...

one time i decided to cut my own bangs. i had a tight kinky perm on my normally straight flat hair which meant it was frizzy in some spots but not others. i started cutting on the bangs and as i cut and cut to "even them up" i eventually ended with these 1/2 inch long bangs about 3 inches deep on my hairline. i didn't even have enough to curl. i had to go get a new curling iron - a 1/4 inch one! i looked like a freakin poodle. it was horrible.

on another note - check out:

Great site...especially the mullet sightings lol

Anonymous said...

heh... I'm from New Joisey, but I fled long ago :P

it was us vs Them: the normals vs the JAPs... tho we used to say you don't have to be Jewish to be a JAP..

It's funny, i would tell people I was from Marlboro, and the first thing they would say was, "You don't look like you're from Marlboro!!"

just thought i'd comment, tho i'm a long time lurker... i just haven't heard the term Jap in like 20 years...

JDogg said...

I'm going to go find the old yearbooks when I get home.

luvpumpkns said...

i too, suffered from "mushroom" head...thanks previous comentator for summingthat one up perfectly. right after i hit puberty, i had long blonde straight hair that was becoming more wavy, and i made the double-whammy of hair--cutting mishaps..i got a bob with bangs. i have the round face curse, too, so i spent my first year of high school with the worst haircut ever. in my yearbook picture, it looks like i have mop on my head.

similarly, my mom had the curse of the pixie haircut back in the 60's. her older sister had lots of blonde curls, and they took so long to set that my grandma kept my mom's hair short so she wouldnt have to spend so much time working with two girls' hair. my mom must have always resented that, because before every school picture up until the age of about ten, my mom had my hair in those cursed foam rollers all night, trying to get my hair curly.

Whitey McCracker said...

Ok, I've detailed my three horrifying hair experiences here The Laziest Girl in the World

traca said...

From the age of 11 to 15 I sported the Little Orphan Annie perm. I thought I was fabulous, and could not understand why none of my friends did their hair like me. *sigh* said...

I just read on the Internet that you read my blog every time I post on Google Reader. I just wanted to say that I'm thrilled and honored. I consider you an excellent writer that I can only learn from.

I EVEN enjoyed your story about your hair!


Emily said...

This is a little belated but:

Just be glad you could still be identified as female.

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