This is reflected in my personal style, which I call “invisible chic.” I dress not to be noticed. I do buy jewelry occasionally but seldom wear anything more than a pair of earrings. I wear my long hair (graying and uncolored) pulled back in an unstylish bun. I gave up the battle of trying to make my hair submit to whatever trend was current. I never won.
Before me, my mother fought the battle.
A beautiful woman, Mother had a real sense of personal style and wanted her daughters to have it, too. Alas, she would look at me, and her shoulders would slump in dismay. I had good features (after I grew into my teeth), but my hair was an abomination. Thick and rebellious, it harbored a resentment toward my mother who fought valiantly until I reached my teen years when she handed the standard over to me.
At first, Mother coped with my unruly mop by cutting it off. That’s not to say SHE cut it off. Mother seldom touched my hair. In fact, I don’t remember her ever combing it. My older sister was responsible for grooming me and my younger sister. (Come to think of it, my hair seemed to behave for her.)
No, Mother took me to a barber. My hair was tamed! Granted, I looked like a boy with big teeth, but my hair stayed put. For six weeks. It grew with a vengeance, and by the seventh week, Mother was defeated until she could get me back to the barber.
I don’t remember how long these skirmishes went on, but I do remember when Mother changed tactics. It was no longer proper for me to sport a boy haircut, so we visited a beauty shop, and there my hair almost met its Waterloo. On the other hand, I thought I was going to be beautiful. I was getting a perm! I now know “beautiful” and “perm” are not synonymous. I went from looking like a bedraggled tomboy to a tall poodle.
Sitting through a perm for several hours was not difficult. I rather enjoyed the attention and, oddly, loved having my hair messed with. What I hated was the aftermath. Permed hair requires a lot of maintenance. I became a slave to curlers and learned to sleep while my head was being tortured. My mother was pleased. I looked like HER child instead of something hanging on a far branch of the family tree.
I hated perms, but Mother was relentless until I hit the teenage years and joined my hair in rebellion. I discovered the pony tail, the precursor of my current hair style. I can’t say that I don’t sometimes wish for a more modern look, a sleek hairdo that frames my face just so, one that says, “Look at me. I am just as stylish as you are.” I swear that’s when I can hear my hair snickering, “It ain’t ever gonna happen!”
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