Bad Hair Days
I’m gazing at a photo of me and my darling husband at the Phi Gamma Delta formal in February 1975, and what strikes me (besides the obvious, which is how young and thin we were) is that my haircut is almost exactly the same as the one I have now. My hair has always been an issue — unattended, it hangs in my face like a curtain. (Remember Cousin It on The Addams Family? That’s my natural state.)
I have tried every hairdo and length, never with ideal results. Anna Wintour bob? Check. Short pixie do? Check. Long and streaming? Tried that too (see Cousin It). As James Rado and Gerome Ragni so eloquently put it in “Hair,” “Knotted, polka dotted, twisted, beaded, braided, powered, flowered and confettied, bangled, tangled, spangled and spaghettied!”
In recent years, I had insisted that the front of my hair remain long enough to push behind my ears (see Cousin It). A couple of months ago, however, my nice hairdresser covertly cut the sides shorter and more angled. It looks pretty good –- to other people. To me, it’s something to keep pushing out of my eyes. “Stop messing with it,” my DH says. “It looks fine.” Actually, it looks just like it looked in 1975, when I drunkenly posed with him on the dance floor in a seafoam green nylon halter gown.
His hair?! HA! That’s another story altogether. He looked like Berger from Hair when we met, so let’s just say that his flowing do has undergone a more drastic change. But never, ever, did it hang in his face.
