While organizing our digital photo library last week — a collection of over 4,000 photos taken since Jon and I have been together — I was reminded of what a terrible year in hair I’ve had. I don’t remember a more terrible year in hair, not even when my mom cut it all off in Kindergarten only to have it grow back in oblong, mismatched wiry patches, not unlike the hair on the butt of a rodent.
I had long curly hair for the majority of my life, up through the end of college and into Real Life when the color or style of my hair didn’t determine whether or not I would be put on academic probation. When I started making my own money and consorting with evil people (ie, people in California), I cut off all my hair and bleached it blonde, a sort of “fuck you” to my conservative upbringing. Problem was, my heartfelt “fuck you” was an expensive leap into bi-monthly upkeep, and I spent the next year financing highlights. It was a lesson my consummately Republican father couldn’t have laid out better.
I kept my hair blonde and short for several years, letting it go long enough only to flirt with the back of my neck here and there. Because of the expense, however, and because I lost my job last year in a fantastic display of public stupidity, I had to get creative with my hair and I’m surprised my husband still loves me. This week’s photo collection showcases the metamorphosis of my hair in the last year, a trip to hell and back, and proves that I so wasn’t kidding about that one time with the septic and the tank and the poopy red.