I am obsessed.
No, this isn�t going to be another Clay Aiken entry.
I�m talking about my hair.
My mostly brunette tresses have been through quite a metamorphosis in 33.75 years. These locks have been brushed, combed, cut, permed, highlighted, colored, gelled, moussed, sprayed and scrunched.
And the vanity of it all never ends. Never. Ends. I think a pictorial retrospective will best illustrate the Obsession With My Hair.
It began at an early age.
A very early age.
The original �do� involved a small tight ponytail on top of the head, thus the original term �duck-a-duck� was coined.
Of course, this style sometimes morphed into a strange coiffure that seemed to defy gravity.
When my mane wasn�t impeccably groomed, I could be found sporting the Street Urchin Look that was so stylish in the early seventies.
A brief plummet into the Short and Cowlicky phase
was followed by what I like to call �The Pigtails Years�.
Obviously matching bows were essential to the success of this vogue. Especially when your dad is a 70s porn star and your mom sports a giant fro. The bows draw attention.
Then the hair grew and grew and grew.
I think the real reason I needed glasses was because I couldn�t see through the strands.
The Hair Hell years begin in 1984. You THINK you are new wave, �cause you wear Forenza shaker sweaters and jeans with the ankles safety pinned. So you perm your hair, shave off one side of the fifty dollar perm, and spray Sun-In through your fringe. You think you�re all Duran Duran, but really, you just look like an ASS.
Except for a short spell in college as Elaine from Seinfeld,
my hair has looked like this for the last 15 years.
The only difference is today, I have a flatiron.