Recently, my hair became curly. I have no idea why, but at some point in the “growing out the mourning pixie cut,” my hair decided to reinvent itself. I walked into my haidresser's, and she looked at me and said (somewhat accusingly) “what the *$%#& did you DO?”  As we discussed my new, bendy hair, I muttered “well, the same thing happened to my mom…”

What may strike some people as odd is that my mom and I had, essentially, the same hair. Sort of a chestnut brown, fine and dense, with a bland waviness. When I was in elementary school, my hair was a deeper, darker brown, and to my chagrin, It got a little lighter -and redder -  every year. So, when I was in college, my roommate helpfully (she said) dyed my hair jet black, which had the effect of horrifying literally everyone I knew. My mother, who I expected to blow a gasket, rolled her eyes and muttered “at least it's not an orange crew cut!” (I had lost my ever-lovin’ mind over Annie Lennox in high school  and demanded her haircut, which mom- perhaps wisely -  vetoed). When, for my 49th birthday, I dyed my entire head a  mix of bright purple, aquamarine, and cobalt blue, she just looked at me and said “is this still an Annie Lennox thing?”

Not that she was immune to hair manipulation. I am risking the wrath of mom by posting the perm photo that she thought I'd never find. When she called and told me that she had gone blonde, I thought how interesting it was that our hair, so similar in essence, was one of the ways in which we most visibly separated ourselves. And, as always, she went to the light side and I to the dark. She cropped her hair close, and I let mine grow for years at a time. Her hair went curly, and mine went straighter the longer it got. From my vantage point, we were polar opposites, moving in quite different directions. But…hair is history. There is a reason we instinctively cut off our hair in mourning or moving on. Hair holds our trauma and our triumphs, our secrets and aspirations. Hair, for many, is all our relatives and ancestors, for better or worse.  For me, hair is a touchstone. I have a hard time recognizing people’s faces, but things like hair and glasses give me something to latch onto visually. This extends to myself, as well…I now have NO idea who I’m looking at in the mirror. But, as sure as I inherited my mom’s lab values (thanks a LOT, mom!), I also got a few other things. The saying “Sometimes I open my mouth and my mom comes out,” has become sadly funny. Hopefully, curls will bring wisdom.

For your consideration on this, my Mom’s76th birthday, I offer you some photos of my mom’s 80’s hair, a period which some of you may never have seen. One note: these photos span about 6-8 years. The “Groovy Sweater” photo is dated 1982. The soon-to-be-infamous perm photo is 1984 (I am gonna blame Orwell for the perm). The last one is probably somewhere between 1988 and 1990, because that’s my college apartment (this was a facial expression I saw a LOT when I was in college). You will also note the glasses stay the same throughout the 80’s. Also, bonus photo of my hair’s “new direction.” The “Laugh a Lot” hat is my mom’s…I found it in a pile of fundraising hats for St. Jude’s, and it instantly became her preferred snow shoveling hat. The glasses…are mine. You might know that my mom had a thing for silly hats. I can’t stand anything wrapped around my head (just wearing the hat for that photo gave me the ick), so my thing is reading glasses in every color, shape, and size. Ya gotta have a gimmick!

Be excellent to each other.