This story may begin when I was 17, and my mother died. She never really fooled around much with my hair, save to give me those foul smelling Toni Perms when I was 7 or 8. Blouse-less, in her brassier, with a cigarette hanging out of one side of her mouth.
I had girlfriends in junior high and high school, and as far as hair went, it was all about braiding about a thousand little braids in our hair, to get some sort of wavy look. This was the early seventies, and we did not have access to today's fancy appliances for straightening or crimping and who knows what all.
Then I moved far away from my girlfriends, and not having any sisters or kind gentle women nearby, my girlie genes almost withered and died. I didn't care for fashion or make up or hair styles. And in the eighties, that was not necessarily a bad thing.
Now, I have friends that love to give pedicure parties and they also offer to help the 'fussing with my hair,' (since I am becoming more and more grey and so need regular 'treatments.' Ahem.)
I am gradually shortening my locks as well as lightening them. Tomorrow? First time ever High Lights.
I am thinking about going dramatic. Why the fuck not?
Also? Can I again say how happy I am to have moved here and to have found such wonderful wimmin friends?
