Ask any teenage girl (if you’re brave enough) whether hair is important, and they’ll tell you yes, of course (once they’re done scoffing and rolling their eyes). Teenagers fight pimples, growing pains, and body image, and a bad hair day thrown into this hormonal hurricane goes down as smoothly as sandpaper.
My own hair disasters were numerous and soul-crushing, and I’m still traumatized twenty years later. Will I ever forgive myself for the black skunk stripes that I insisted were “soooo kewl?” How many nights will I lie awake and cringe at the crimped hair that I swore made me look like a mermaid? My mother, like so many moms, used to cut my hair, with intermittent success. As a kid, it didn’t matter if my bangs were slightly crooked, or if one side of my hair was longer than the other. As I got older and more critical, my mother’s skills failed to meet up, resulting in the classic “bowl-cut”: a blunt bob ending just below my ears, paired with wispy baby bangs that highlighted my thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows. Despite my mother’s insistence that I was pretty, I looked and felt ugly. If anyone asks, this haircut never happened, and I spent my twelfth year of life in a convent in France.
The most upsetting haircut, however, occurred when I was fifteen. Through trial and many errors, I had ended up with a shaggy pixie-cut hairstyle, which was almost flattering on some days. Needing a clean-up, I went to a new salon and a new stylist, telling her that I just wanted a trim. Remember, this was before the internet; there were no online reviews available. The only indicator of a good salon was how clean it looked from the window! As I sat awkwardly in the chair, the stylist cut my hair shorter and shorter. “I just wanted a trim,” I squeaked, which took a huge amount of courage for me. “Oh, I know,” she replied, cracking her gum. I watched in horror as she snipped and snipped; eventually, my Meg Ryan shag was sheared into Demi Moore’s buzzcut from “G.I. Jane”. My hair was barely an inch long, all around my head. I looked like a boy. I was devastated, and the worst part is I still paid for the haircut.
The next day, I cried as I got ready for school. “It’s not that bad,” my mom said, “why don’t we try and spike it up a little?” She did her best, but I looked like a miserable, puffy-eyed pineapple. “Do you want to stay home today?” she asked softly. Somehow, this seemed worse than enduring school – people would know that I was too insecure to handle my awful haircut. With a ball of pure fear in my stomach, I went to my classes and suffered silently. There was nothing to do but wait weeks and weeks for my hair to grow. I tried dozens of home remedies to encourage hair growth, including rubbing olive oil into my scalp. This did nothing but leave a grease stain on my pillow and make me smell like an Italian restaurant. Eventually, mercifully, my hair grew out, and I tried my best to like what I saw in the mirror.
The most painful lessons are the ones that teach us the most; this haircut from hell taught me how to advocate for myself. I learned to speak up when something isn’t right, even if it’s uncomfortable. Recently, I was waiting in line at the grocery store when a woman cut in front of me. “Excuse me,” I said to her, “the line-up is behind me.” The woman, having just graduated from Charm School, rolled her eyes, and shuffled to the back of the line. Luckily, my daughter Molly witnessed this exchange, and loudly asked “why did her eyes do that?” eliciting chuckles from the other customers. Hopefully I’m instilling a sense of confidence in my kids, so they never feel uncomfortable asking for what they want, or for what’s right.
I still have the occasional hair disaster. Cutting my own bangs was a bad idea. Dying my hair in the kitchen sink was a bad idea. Trying to curl my hair was a bad idea, and a fairly dangerous one (my burnt earlobe is almost healed). Right now, I’m on the hunt for a new stylist, and I’m grateful for online reviews. It’s helpful when people take the time to write about their experiences, positive or negative. When I find a new stylist, I’ll be sure to tell them: “you know Demi Moore in “G.I. Jane”? I want the opposite of that!”
