Let's talk about my hair issues. I have a hair appointment today. The day I started this blog, I posted about my then-imminent hair appointment at the time. Perhaps if I give you some H.G. hair history, you will begin to understand my tortured relationship with my hair.
Here I am at 1 year old. Happy. Fuzzy. Oblivious to what the future holds in store for my impending locks.
Here I am at age 3 when my mother would pincurl my hair. I remember trying to sleep with my hair in pincurls or rollers poking into my head all night. I never realized my mom was passive-aggressive until just now.
I was 7 when my mother took me in for a Pixie. I looked like Judyfrickin' Carne from Laugh-In. She would tease the top of my hair until it poofed out at the crown. I would leave the room and
lick my hand to wet my hair down until it stuck to my scalp. This photo does not really do justice to the height at the crown of my head. It also looks like I just got up so it was smashed down during the thankful night.
When I was in middle school, my aunt became best friends with a hairdresser. Her name was Kris and she looked like the Krissy doll (which I never had as a child and ordered for myself from eBay one year but that's another story) from my childhood. Gorgeous, long red-toward-auburn hair. She wreaked havoc on my scalp covering. I was her pet (read: Guinea pig).
Here, she did my hair for my 7th grade dance. It was a miracle of suspension. There was a cloud of hair in the back in the form of a humongous bun which this photo does not accurately depict. She put plastic ivy leaves in it, I shit you not. I went to the dance looking like what I now realize is a future polygamist wife. Even the dress (although I loved it at the time - it was so long and the closest I came to a gown for some time) is so Little House.
The summer after 7th grade I got my hair cut into a shag just in time for camp. No complaints here actually. Except maybe that plastic barrette. Oh, and what the hell is up with the clown paint? I hate clowns.
I would like to point out that in between all of these fabu-do's my hair would grow out long and straight, just how I liked it. With or without bangs. It drove my mom crazy. Clearly.
Fast forward to 8th grade. Another dance. No wonder I went alone. Again. This time I got a Pageboy. See? They weren't just regular haircuts, they had names and everything. When I got to the dance, it was Day 2 of said 'do. Lacquered to within an inch of its life, much like a Jeffrey Bilhuber dining room. At the dance one of my future closest friends said, "How do you get it to stay like that?" She used to carry her brush around with her and had straight hair and 5 boyfriends at once. It was bouyant, my hair. Springy.
The photo above does not do justice to this particular look. I looked like a regular on the Lawrence Welk Show. Good Jesus. Like this:
Things got worse when my mother discovered Home Permanents. I flatly refuse to show photos from that time. Actually, my hair was worse in the 80s when I paid for permanents. One particularly memorable one involved tongue depressors. My hair was so vast, it defies description. Something like this:
I am happy to say that I moved forward long ago. Anytime I try to deviate from the norm, though, I run into trouble. Which is why today I am in for the same ol'. Again.
Wish me luck.
Hail to the Chia-ief. 
Of course I found a picture of it. The internets, they is magical.
