This has nothing to do with much of anything, so you may not want to read any further. Actually, it skirts around growing older and some recessed memories from my childhood.
I believe we all are reminded of childhood events and non-events which pop up at unexpected times.
Drying my hair this morning, I realized I had something in common with Lana Turner. Remember her? Some people thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world in her prime. That’s not what we had in common. She had a hair problem at times — her hair fell down over her forehead and wiped out eyesight in one eye. That’s my problem. She the resemblance? Unfortunately, the drop down happens over my good eye.
Bad hair is part of my genetic makeup. My two brothers enjoyed dark brown curly hair. Mine from the beginning was straight dishwater blond. We’re talking wave-less straight.
Dad was an amateur photographer who caught many variations of hairdos during my childhood. He developed and printed all his pictures, so we have hundreds of photographs from our earlier years. He didn’t always say “ready, set, go” or even “cheese” for that matter, so we have candid shots. Some are worse than others.
I told my hairdresser one time that I was going to make a picture album of all the trials and failures of my hair growing up. His comment? “Get a life.” So I did. Done with that now and I’m back to the hair.
The strain of bad hair has strung through many generations. My mom asked my great Aunt Alice in the early 1920s if “she was going to comb her hair or was she going to church that way?”
During my elementary school days, we knew a hairdresser whose kitchen doubled as a beauty parlor. As she worked from home and lived nearby, about twice a year she would telephone Mom — 7584 was the number so you can tell how long ago that was — to tell her that she had just given a lady a permanent and saved out some magic for Sandy.
“Send her over.” And I’d go and subject myself to terrible odors for hours. At least her daughter Sharon was my friend, so I could commiserate with her during the procedures.
The hair hasn’t gotten any better over the years. It has been various luscious colors. Countless hairdos were tried and failed.
However, I still plan to put a photo album together. Maybe I’ll put it on Facebook, but then the hairdresser would see it and know I didn’t have a life yet. Maybe I’ll just share it with the immediate family and bore them to death.
Mike, my little 58-year-old brother, would show tolerance and tell me he enjoyed it. His curly brown hair has turned to gray now but it’s still curly. Lucky guy.
New problems have surfaced with my hair and advancing age. I won’t go into all of them since they’re so personal. Since I’m rather short most everybody can look down on my head and see what’s happening. Just think “comb over.”
Last thought. Maybe I’ll keep this little essay to myself. Then my husband Mark might display it with photos as a new take on a memorial service — “through the years with Sandy’s hair.” You had fair warning about nothing to do with anything — except I could use some lessons on successful comb overs. Maybe some Trump talk…