My adventures in hair reached a new level yesterday as I applied cordless clippers in a fit of daring-do. The story could end here quickly with the word disaster—although possibly too strong a word—for what I have now is a puffy top with a shaved back. When I asked my spouse for her opinion, she pulled on the tail that drips down the back of my head and said dryly, “I don’t think cutting any more will help.”
My hairdo is a Davy Crockett hat, faux coonskin very popular with the children of the 1950s, thanks to the Fess Parker TV show. I never had the hat, but I coveted one, even though I didn’t like the show. As the King of the Wild Frontier, Fess couldn’t act his way out of a racoon den, and even Buddy Ebsen in the cast didn’t help. But I have the hat now.
Adventures in hair continue throughout life, although they first rage during adolescence when nobody—nobody I ever knew—was happy with her hair. I look at photos of the teen me now and wonder what I ever had to complain about. OK, the flip was not a good look for anyone, but it was the style, and it was a lovely color (real), a light brown with red and blonde highlights, and shiny. With absolutely no memory of who cut my hair in those days (not me, not my mother), I only remember tussling with my mother over the use of shampoo—my use too frequent in her view—and never thinking my hair looked good. My best friend ironed her hair to straighten it and while I watched her perform this amazing feat in awe, I was never tempted.
In youth, adventures in hair follow the fashions of the day. Long and free, curled, permed, teased and big, short, longer. Later, the adventures in hair become a little desperate, as we try and settle on the real us, our real look, just not such a middle-aged version. The color goes and we make the choice to dye, or not, and stick with that color, or not.
Still later, adventures in hair continue with the big question, what hairdo does an older woman look best wearing? The graceful ageing thing applies to hair as much as anything else, so the decisions should be based on grace. However, grace is not always easy to achieve, especially under fire. Does your hair proceed you down the aisle of age, or hang back a little?
Adventures in hair seep into my fiction. The characters obsess little about hair, but where appropriate (the young Meg in Heroine Of Her Own Life, for instance), they worry and change their hair. I describe the color, quality and styles of the characters’ hair, including facial hair. The characters age, and their hair ages and is transformed over time, too. In 1922, Meg and Mary take steps into the modern world and have their Victorian hair bobbed.
During World War II, everybody has more pressing things to do than worry about hair. This is true in Heroine and in the sequel under production. To save time shaving on board a Royal Navy ship and irritating his skin, Meg’s nephew Robert grows a beard. Meg’s brother David grows a beard to save hot water. Lillian’s chestnut hair becomes silver-streaked and she wears it up, often full of pencils as she works at Stranmillis Typing. Meg’s russet hair remains short, while Annie, living in America during the war, wears her silver hair in a bun. In the late 1960s Lillian’s nephew Albert grows bald, but he cultivates long sideburns as compensation. Hair styles say as much about fictional characters as our own follicle arrangements say about us. https://www.constancegemmett.com/online-independent-bookstores-now-selling-heroine-of-her-own-life/
The pandemic took my adventures in hair to another level, even before the fatal cordless clipper purchase. Like everyone, I found myself in a needs must situation after my last professional hairdressing in March. Through July, I hadn’t the slightest inclination to be two feet away from five people (mine plus two other hairdressers and their clients), blow dryers blasting, our droplets swirling in the air. The last hair cut lasted for a good long time, but the color began to go. I let it, even though that would have been easy to fix. My hairdresser decided the pandemic was a good time to retire. The last link to an appreciated professional gone.
A few You Tubes later, I gave it a gentle trim with a small pair of scissors. Pleased with the result, I gave my hair a second trim a few weeks later. Nothing adventurous. Going for grace. Going, going, gone—I ordered the clippers, courting disaster. Once the clippers arrived, I summoned my courage and stormed the bathroom mirror well armed.
So what happened? An adventure in hair! The clipper kit included color-coded guards for the business end. The instructions listed the guards by the portion of inch they represented. After swooping at the back of my head with the smallest guard, 1/8″, I stopped. The amount of hair coming off was rather long. Apparently, I had confused the 1/8″ as the amount CUT, rather than the amount LEFT on the head. At least I started in the back…so, I am left with a David Crockett. At some point I’ll figure out how to ameliorate this hairdo, and enjoy yet another adventure in hair! Or I’ll just let it grow.