Sheltering in place has afforded me the time to ponder certain things. Today I am pondering my hair. I suppose it’s because I am sporting a stylish pixie these days and I am way overdue for a haircut (and color). Check it out. Please note, I don’t normally wear that much makeup… or sparkly stuff. I was prepped for a ballroom competition. Anyway, for the first ten years of my life I sported a very short, not-so-cute (or at least that’s how if felt back then) pixie haircut. That’s me… top row, second from the right.
Every time my mother brought me to see Mrs. Rosenthal (the neighborhood lady who gave haircuts and perms out of her kitchen) I cried. She ALWAYS cut my bangs too short and people routinely mistook me for a boy. I remember my mother’s efforts to console me. “You look like Twiggy,” she would say, but being compared to a mid-sixties anorexic fashion model made famous for androgyny only served to confirm what believed to be true: I look like a boy.
Being mistaken for a boy made me feel ugly and no one wants to feel ugly. The truth is, that is precisely how I felt for most of my childhood, until fourth grade, when my mother finally allowed me to let my hair grow and I vowed never, ever to cut it short again. Ironically, I did…only this time I like it.
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