I’ve always had issues with my hair. From a very young age, my mother forced toxic chemicals on my otherwise-straight hair, with the hopes it my curl and bounce like Shirley Temples. It did neither, instead forging its way down a lonely lifelong path I like to call “Hairway to Hell.”
Exhibit A–Two Years Old:
When we finally realised that perming my hair wasn’t working for my disobedient locks, it became an uphill struggle to find a hairstyle that could handle my daily escapades without turning stringy (as stick-straight hair is wont to do). My mother was of the “Let’s-Brush-it–and-Fluff-it-and-Tie-it-Back-Conservatively” school of thought.
Exhibit B–Neighborhood Preschool Class Photo:
During this period in my life, I was not the cutest girl in class–but I was at least presentable.
Exhibit C–1st Grade:
Then something terrible happened: I learned about independence. Somewhere along the lines, some teacher planted seeds of revolution into my already-impressionable mind. I grew, I learned, and I became sure that I knew better than everyone else–my mother included. Every outfit I wore had to be my own creation. Every extracurricular she signed me up for that didn’t sound fun turned into a war zone. And you’d better believe that every school year on picture day, my hair became a battle of wills between my mother and me. Now, anyone who knows my mother can see that she is strong-willed. Probably the most strong-willed person I know. But she also knew to choose her battles. My guess is that she became so exhausted from forcing me to continue piano lessons and singing classes and dance and softball, she decided to let the hair issues…slide. I was that kind of kid. I give you…
Exhibit D–“The Scraggle-Haired Girl,” or “How I thought I Could Do it Better:”
Exhibit E–“Seriously?” or “Seriously??” or “I Even Fought to Wear a Christmas Dress When School Pictures Were in the September:”
Finally, about the fifth grade (grade five, Canadians), I decided that brushing my hair might be a worthwhile activity. I got myself some bangs cut, found a can of hairspray, and got with it.
Exhibit F–Still-Not-as-Cute-as-Some-but-at-Least-Maintained:
Unfortunately, within a few months, those bangs grew out. Instead of getting them trimmed like any normal person would do, I took a page out of the oh-so popular Rebecca Donaldson-Katsopolis from the after school sitcom “Full House.”
Exhibit G–My Hairdo Hero (circa 1996):
Unfortunately I could not find a photo from this tragic phase of my life. I know some exist, but I have an inkling they’re back in Arizona with my family. Not to fear, though! My bangs are just long enough now to capture the general idea of my fifth grade hairstyle:
Exhibit F–How My Hair Looked [an Approximate Re-creation]:
And while the above photos are horrific (for I’d only just woken up [despite the fact I’m wearing pearls]), trust me when I say: my actual fifth-grade hair was much worse. The bangs were higher, my hair was swoopier, and it was truly a bad phase of my life.
Please…don’t try this at home.
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