Finding my way

I always envied the Breck girls and their beautiful hair. It was bouncy and full of body and long; perfect hair for a teenage girl in 60’s.

I tried growing my hair out. Since my hair was too fine to tease successfully, it just looked stringy when it was long. Inevitably I would cut it short again and wrestle with curlers and Dippity Do and rat tail combs and hairspray. So much hairspray. The cheap stuff. Aqua Net. And still the ratting and teasing fell flat.

My dad always wanted me to have short hair. He grew up in the 20s and 30s. Short hair was a thing then. Long hair was old fashioned, and for him it remained old fashioned. He didn’t care much for Ali McGraw. Or Olivia Hussey or the Mamas and the Papas. He just wanted me to have short hair; so there was always tension around my hair.

Almost every guy I dated told me I would look better in long hair. It was a thing. Short hair was for our mothers. More tension around my hair. By the time I was married and pregnant, my hair was long enough for a ponytail. I still managed to throw up in it every day. When I got it cut short, it caused more tension, but it did smell better. I almost immediately started growing it out again. Long, short; long, short.

I don’t love my hair. It has been a problem my whole life. It has been a relief to have it gone. If I had known what a relief it would be, I might have shaved it off long ago. I don’t miss it. It is surprising to look in the mirror, though.