Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Archeology of Hair

You know those people who can't let go of a hairdo? They're in their thirties and beyond, usually quite civilized, but still doing hair and makeup like they were in high school? Why, I wonder? Do they look at old photos and think, "Day-yum, I looked good. I'm sticking with that look"?

Because of my age, the Eighties Chick strikes a familiar chord.

We've all seen her. Or maybe, we are her*. In high school, she had Big Hair. Permed, teased and tormented to astonishing volume, her hair was so caked in hairspray, a tiny spark would have turned it into a three-alarm fire. Her high school photo is a face surrounded by a nebulous mass that took up the entire frame.

Twenty years later, she still has the same "do." Now both she and her hair are showing their age. A few children have entered the picture and her butt's as wide as the hair. In the worst scenarios, she's still stuffing that expanded flesh into a pair of jeans made for a far younger version of her. The fabric strains and almost squeaks.

A few weeks ago the husband and I were in a furniture store. The male version of the Eighties child was shopping with his wife. The wife was rooted in this decade, but he was in Old Rocker mode. Long blond hair, shot though with grey, was inadequately covering the expanding bald patch on the top of his skull. A heavy leather black jacket with all the necessary spangles covered an Iron Maiden T-shirt, and his wallet was safe and sound, thanks to a chain. A chain. Why the chain, anyway? Were Eighties rock concerts rife with pickpockets? Or did this keep him from misplacing it after a encounter with especially good pot?

He and wifey were shopping for area rugs. He clomped around the showroom in his big black boots, saying domesticated things like, "How about this one, honey? The blue pattern matches the couch."

Other variants of "blast from the past" fashions include the perpetual flower child, now rather dried out, hair long and stringy. The limp hair hardly suited him or her at twenty; now it's developed a bit of a frizz, and stray, graying bits reach out like Medusa's snakes. My favourite is the enormous bouffant, teased high and requiring the wearer to sleep on her back so it doesn't get flattened. I always imagine tiny communities of fairies living in high-rise hairdos, generations of tiny people living and dying in hairy condos.

And speaking of weird fashions, what is it with women who shave of their eyebrows and draw them in so that they arch high, giving them the appearance of a startled Vulcan?

*No. She isn't me. I've change my hair (and color) so many times, I don't know what the real me looks like.

Monday. Meh.
Pat K.

 

Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005