Yesterday I chopped off 8 inches of my hair for locks for love. After all that growing the two little ponytails looked kind of pathetic and I wasn’t sure if they would accept them or even make a full wig for anyone. The wigs are free to children suffering from cancer and as I took scissors in hand I thought of a little six year old girl looking at her bald self in the mirror who didn’t yet have the luxury of vanity.
Most likely she will be thinking of her next appointment at Boston Children’s Hospital or wherever she was being treated for cancer and dealing with that dreadful diagnosis in a childhood that should be full of running and jumping , playing and learning and loving her life. Not dealing with a life threatening condition at age 6. A sobering thought as I measured my hair and had 76 years of cancer free life to look back on.
I had investigated the prerequisites- no highlighting, but they did accept the dyed from gray to semi blonde tresses - they used to call that dirty blonde. Well of course I wouldn’t send them dirty hair.
That was also one of the
of the other rules , clean and undamaged. Who would send in dirty hair - well I guess , it must’ve happened. There’s naught as queer as as folk , as my friend Alice would say.
After a year or so of growing the above and with my newly acquired lockdown navel gazing self awareness there was an ugly confrontation with my own vanity.
What a sight - I thought as I took scissors in hand , measured the 8 inches with a magic marker, as per instructions corralled two tails with two rubber bands, hacked away at bunch number one. Surveying the lop sided damage i wondered if this could be a new trend , a geriatric hairstyle , half a head of hair is better than none like those young hipsters who shave one side of their head and sport dangling ringlets on the other. So what if I gave that a whirl - hair grows back doesn’t it. Well not so fast at 76. How much time could I count on anyway ?
Prior to the actual measurement, growing my hair out and yielding up the 8 inches , I had swept it all into an up style anchored by a toothy clip and chignoned the rest with a lattice work of pins.
Why don’t you wear it down my friend Breeda asked on a pre pandemic trip to Ireland.
It suits you much better , said she of the perfect , electric rollers , and curling iron coiff.
I don’t have your patience I said.
I’ve let all my “product “ go by it’s sell by date and I’m surely nearly there myself. Out of fashion like an old song for a waist length mutton dressed as lamb coiffure.
At this length I might be mistaken for Rochester‘s mad wife before her house burned down but sadly , hardly lady Godiva.
Funny thing about hair, mine used to be curly and aged prematurely with a good sprinkling of grey in my twenties. That was when my love affair with the dye bottle started and it was transformed to raven black. But it eventually faded to gray- I introduced the new me to myself. Blondes have more fun. I suppose if I was a young one today I’d be giving myself the emerald green or the tricolored national flag dye job for St. Patrick’s Day. There are some common sense benefits to being old and non risk taking.
My brother Brian , a keen observer of physical attributes or lack thereof said - said - I’m so glad you’re not wearing that Jackdaw on your head anymore Rosemary. That would be a bird that’s black as a crow.
My hair hero at that time was the black curtained face covering perfection of Cher.
She had the kind of hair that appeared to fall in linear perfection from the roots , not one hair out of place , frizzed or fried.
Speaking of fried - that was me on a Saturday night.
Before “product” moisture was the enemy of frizz - a mortal hair sin. Worse still the rain.
It only rained twice last week , once for three days and once for four days , so the story goes.
Mine had morphed from girlish curls to poker straight frizz. I mangled the whole unmanageable mass into two lengthy black braids.
On a Saturday night for the Ballymascanlon Sat Night Dance I either subjected myself to a sleepless night with teradactyl toothed jumbo rollers , or a serious visit to my friend Kathleen Farrell’s Hair Salon for a blow dry.
As a last resort there was always the ironing board.
What are you doing , my amused mother would ask.
You appear to be ironing your hair - why ?
I loved your hair the way you wore it at Roscrea, the boarding school where we first made the acquaintance of peroxide in the science lab. Delighted with our lab trial resulting in a few skunk patches down the middle or off to the side.
Cool , until the nuns copped on and locked the lab.
Roscrea hairstyle ?
That was when I was twelve , I said.
Well it seemed to be a lot less trouble .
Never follow fashion she said. Hairstyles come and go. Wear what suits you.
So back to the mirror with one side up and the other still at my disaggregated waistline. Speaking again of vanity.
Did I mention the lockdown muffin top waistline replacement. Too late now - I only have enough hair left now to cover one side.
I picked up the scissors and down came the other side.
I viewed the results with a scorched earth , you’ve only yourself to blame for this , it’s not even a wig full , you won’t have enough left to put it up.
It’s going to be more than three weeks to fix this bad haircut.
I lifted my head to the mirror, my mother would be so proud.
There it was my original Roscrea hairstyle.
And I have a few curls. !!