Weeeeell, it’s Sunday, otherwise known as "The Day No One Reads Blogs" so I thought I would talk about my hair. Miss Banshee’s hair through the ages! Woo narcissism!
When I was a Tiny Banshee, this is what my hair did. Do you see the beautiful blond curls? The innocent face? Yeah. We don’t know what happened to this child.
I’m going to dance in a cage someday.
Then we hit the awkward period, otherwise known as "The 80s." Dudes, I have not the words for what my hair did during the 80s, other than thank the little baby Jeebus wearing Pampers in the manger that I never figured out the "bridge and tunnel bangs" because I was doing quite well all on my own to be as uggo as possible.
Check out the high waisted acid-wash, man. I bet I’m wearing a belt, too.
And then? I went to all-girls school, and I just stopped caring, as documented here.
I always had that look of horror when I wore the uniform.
The hair has a life of its own, as referenced here by a pic of me from the mid-nineties, when it was obscenely long and natural. I do not remember what that was like, nor do I care to. All I remember was that it was so long and ratty I could tie it in a knot on the top of my head if I so chose, sometimes held by a pencil. I was very popular in high school.
Someone get this child a hot oil treatment, stat.
Then we get to college, wherein the hair started to get shorter and shorter, with varying degrees of success. Here’s a SMOKING hot pic of what happens when the hair gets to a certain length.
He’s totally laughing at me. As well he should.
(shoutout to Joose, who hung out with me despite the hair.)
Then it ALL got lopped off, and since I was thin as a rail, I could pull this off. Not so much now that I actually eat, and there is some shape to my face that doesn’t conjure the word "skeletal."
Somewhere in Oklahoma, where the wind goes sweeping through…not my hair.
Oh, early 2003. I’ll let this speak for itself. It has a LOT to say.
I really thought this looked good. I have problems.
And then there are the wilderness years. No pictures. Trust me, it’s better that way. Those years ended when in a manic fit, I pulled a Britney and had Stevil shave my head. There are no pictures, nor should there be.
Aw, Britney. This is very accurate as to how I looked, by the way.
So here we are! This haircut, which I have been asked about several times, is actually quite easy to acquire. Get my mangy thatch of hair, hit with blowdryer, apply several ozone-killing quarts of hairspray. That’s it!
Sorry about that global warming thing. My bad.
What’s next in my follicle adventures? You tell me!