See what you started, Mrs. G? I just had to participate in this theme, given my lifelong obsession with my own hair. This could also be subtitled, "A Series of Unfortunate Headgear."
Case in point. Nice bonnet.
Hat free here, but wait...
Yeahhhhh.
My theory on the Pixie cut shown here is that my mom now had two little girls under the age of three and she simply couldn't be bothered with fussing over our hairstyles. To this day, I won't let a razor anywhere near my hair.
This is where I was growing out my Dorothy Hamill cut.
And this is where my mom decided to completely do away with any resemblance to Dorothy.
Right around ten or eleven, I had a habit of waking up between midnight and one in the morning, convinced that it was time for school. My parents thought this was hilarious-the first couple times it happened.
Here I am, sitting in front of my grandparent's "davenport", with my foxy cousin and my kewl new roller skates. I saved my allowance and bought some sparkly green laces to match the wheels. If you could see my ass, I'm sure you would have found a big comb in the back pocket of my Gloria Vanderbilt corduroys-totally unnecessary since I'm wearing my hair in braids. I'm pretty sure I reeked of Love's Baby Soft, too. I was probably trying to look like Half Pint, but her Pa was one of my secret boyfriends.
Wow. I had really big teeth.
I really hoped that I looked like Brooke Shields in this photo. I think I made my mom take me to a modeling school that year. I'm sure they concealed their mirth well since I don't bear any emotional scars from the incident.
Apparently, I was successful in my quest to destroy all photographic evidence of my high school years. Whew. On to the early twenties...
I loved wearing that sweater with my stirrup pants. {{{{shudder}}}}
Well, I've seen worse. Much worse. In fact, here's worse hair from that same day...
Sorry, Betsy. Sorry, Lori. Sorry, Jenny. Didn't mean to throw you under the bus like that.
Guess what this is? This, THIS, is my lame attempt at "The Rachel."
Not.even.close.
And here is me in that same dress, rocking my banana barrette. I was just barely able to stuff my thick hair into those things. Often, they would burst apart from the strain.
In the final photo, I attempt to duplicate the sassy short cut that Meg Ryan sports in You've Got Mail.
And again, I fail miserably.
About a year later, I finally found a hairdresser who convinced me that blow dryers and curling irons didn't need to be a part of my daily primping regimen. She introduced me to products that would allow me to wash and go, effectively giving me back two hours of my life every day.
