A version of this post first appeared in 2015.
Props to my stylist, Stephanie, aka The Miracle Worker
Spring is in the air here in South Carolina, a time of great anticipation and migration. The coots and geese are impressive, but they can't compete with the flocks of women gathering at their favorite beauty salons, lining up for the new spring 'do. I should know - I was one of them.
I had vowed to grow my hair out so that I could have a different look for my daughter's wedding, and was ever so close to having a chin-length bob. But I couldn't take it anymore. It was taking longer and longer to style my hair. My cowlicks kept subverting my efforts at Veronica Lake-style bangs. That side part was heaven-on-scalp for my gray roots. Finally, I succumbed to the siren call of the local salon and joined my fellow females for our annual Spring Makeover.
I have the type of hair that the best that can be said about it is that it's better than no hair at all. It's naturally very dark (or it was in my youth), which translates to 'high maintenance' once the Battle of the Gray commences. There's plenty of it, for now, but it's very fine. Last but not least, it's straight as a board.
When I was a teenager, long hair was in fashion. I'm talking down-to-the-waist long. This was also the era before blow dryers were commonplace, so washing and drying it was a headache. I dolled it up with sponge rollers on occasion; just the last few inches, to give it a little curl. Sometimes I used socks. Yes, socks. You place the hair in the middle of the sock, roll it up a few rotations, and tie the sock in a knot. This way you can put all the hair in a single sock rather than scores of little pink sponge rollers, which was faster, easier, and way more comfortable to sleep in. Yes, we slept in them overnight before the miracle of electric curlers arrived. But I digress.
In high school I girded my loins and cut my hair to shoulder length, which was big drama for me but what a relief, cutting both my hair and my grooming time in half. As time passed, I experimented with shorter and shorter styles. By the time I became a mom, there were plenty of men whose hair was longer than mine. And I loved it. Five minutes max, a little dryer, a little product, and you're out the door looking way better than those styles I spent ten times longer on. I must add I was living in Texas at the time. Short hair has an added bonus there in the summer months.
As much as I like the short styles, I have to admit they are not universally popular. I was shopping with my mom and her sister once. We all had short hairstyles at the time. The owner of the shop we were in was Middle Eastern. We were chatting, so he learned we were all related (as if he couldn't already tell by three 5'-9" women who came in together). When he felt comfortable, he asked us, 'why?' We said, 'why what?' and he said 'why do you wear your hair so short?' I guess he thought it was a family tradition, or a punishment of some kind. He may have been more used to women with long, thick, gorgeous Princess Jasmine hair. Princesses Jasmine, we were not. We stared blankly back at him and responded, 'why not?'
My biggest pet peeve about having short hair is how often I am called 'sir'. Granted, I am tall, as I mentioned earlier. I am not exactly svelte. But I never leave the house without earrings, mascara, lipstick, and the most essential grooming ingredient: eyebrows. I have a pretty respectable set of very obviously female equipment, if you get my meaning. My voice is not particularly deep. I no longer own a pair of overalls. Nevertheless, I wish I had a free partial foil for every time I have been called 'sir'.
I am sure there are also plenty of folks who assume I am a lesbian because I am the furthest thing from a girly-girl, have an active lifestyle, enjoy DIY projects around the house, and wear my hair short (never mind that I have been in a relationship with the same man for more than 30 years and have two grown children with him). I have no problem being mistaken for a lesbian. There are some exceedingly stylish lesbians out there. But mistaken for a man?? Sheesh!! Not the same thing at all!
80s era home perms. Do you begin to see why I wear my hair short now?
The first time it happened, I can't say I didn't have it coming. Strike one: I was living in Minnesota. Minnesota is a beautiful place full of friendly people, but it's not exactly a Vogue subscription hotbed. Strike two: I was at a home improvement store - stereotype alert!! Strike three: I was dressed casually: jeans, comfy boots, plaid shirt layered over a turtleneck sweater. From a distance, I admit, I probably looked like a man. The cashier said, 'thank you, sir' when we finished our transaction. Then she actually looked at me. As I stared back at her, somewhat stunned, she apologized and we went on our merry way. Immediately I resolved not to leave the house again in masculine garb if at all possible. But I shouldn't have worried. It has happened several times since then, regardless of what I am wearing. Sometimes I feel the urge to punch these people in their unobservant noses. But that would just validate their assumption - way too manly!
I like my hair short. I'll be damned if I'll knuckle under to societal stereotypes and waste another year growing it out. I have better things to do with my time. If I'm mistaken for a man, so be it. It's an unfair fact of life that men's haircuts are way cheaper. Maybe the gender confusion will save me some money on my next haircut.
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