Pippi Longstocking Grows Up
When I was young, my hair was so unruly I combed only the top layer. Underneath grew a forest of snarls too painful to work out. My parents applied Johnson’s No More Tangles shampoo and conditioner to little effect. My hair was an affront to hairdressers, who looked heavenward at the sight of me, and wielded their sharpest thinning scissors. I’m not sure why my mother, surely the arbiter of my hair length, decided I should wear it long. It would have been simpler to cut it short, as she did with Diane. But I was unusual in my family; my hair was the lightest, a strawberry blonde, and particularly curly. Perhaps my mom saw a beauty in my hair, despite its condition.
I wasn’t ashamed of my unkempt appearance, made more rugged by my fondness for Sears Toughskins with the reinforced knees. I was a tomboy, a modern day Pippi Longstocking. Diane and I used our Barbie dolls like bats, and I was not a fan of pink. My favorite colors were blue and green, and I dreamed of being the first woman major league baseball player. What did I care about my hair? I just wanted it out of my way during sports.
When adolescence happened upon me, I took more interest in styling my hair. I entered a decade-long relationship with the blow dryer. I straightened my hair under its heat and often used hairspray to prevent recurling. I was influenced by Marsha Brady and aimed for her long straight hair, adding blonde highlights with a DIY highlighting kit, pinholed skull cap included. One of the most flattering pictures of my life was taken during this era—my senior high school portrait. An affirmation that if I was willing to spend time, tools, and product on my hair, I would be rewarded. However, that is not a road we Barretts are built to travel.
In college, I made an ill-advised decision to cut my hair short. It was the 80s and I wanted a shag like Blondie. What I got was Dorothy Hamill. With curly hair. I resembled a cross between the Bee Gees and Bill Clinton. I became a full-on blonde, too. Blow dryers, hair spray, and hair dyes to cover the darker roots. Sometimes I pulled this punk-inspired look off, but it required work, and I was too easily distracted by academic and social commitments.
My hair, and my life, took a radical turn when I moved to Asheville and lived on a farm. I embraced “natural” in every way, growing my hair down to my waist and consigning the blow dryer to warming frozen pipes. I wore braids, sometimes weaving pretty ribbons into my hair. Though I appreciate the rustic sensibilities of my choices then, my hair was too long and reflected the sadness that crept upon me and weighed me down.
As I entered my forties, I cut my hair to shoulder length. Springy curls returned full-force, to an extent I’d never experienced before. I’ve spent the last ten years with this cut, but now apply highlights to cover the grey coming in at my temples. I also use moroccan oil to keep the frizzies at bay. This will likely be my look for a while, unless I go a bit shorter as my hair inevitably thins.
This last decade brought many big changes--moving into the city, divorce, menopause, remarriage, and a new job. The associated stresses took a toll on my hair. During the divorce, I lost too much weight and my hair came out in clumps. I remember looking in the mirror and recalling Bilbo’s words from Lord of the Rings, “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” Life has happily settled down, and my hair is healthier, as am I. Fingers crossed for the future.
I mull continuing with highlights or going grey. The women on my mother’s side color their hair till the end. The Barretts let their hair go grey. Friends advise me to keep highlighting as grey hair would wash out my fair skin and light blue eyes, I do like the color of my highlights, the vibrancy of red and gold against my pale skin. But I’m on the fence regarding the future. I’ve gone from the girl who didn’t care to the woman who does, who seeks to embrace what I’ve got, and not be something I’m not. A woman’s hair is her glory, or so I was told many years ago. Let that be a glory that frees us to choose as we wish, and have fun along the way. We’ll see what my sixties bring.
Diane (left) and I, feral little rascals....
My Pippi Longstocking hair front and center. Diane is on the far right.
My senior high school portrait. Reputedly my best photo ever.
The Eighties, as my love affair with the blow dryer continued.
Diane and I at my wedding. I'm embracing the curls!