Sanity Over Vanity!

When I was young, in the sixties, straight hair was all the rage.  My mom would either have my hair cut short, or when it was longer, she'd put roll large curlers into my locks and secure them with big bobby pins.  I would go out to the street - we actually played in the road - and join a neighborhood round of baseball with curlers in place.  My hair was not of the Twiggy variety.  If it was cut short, it was not a cute bob, it was more of a modified 'fro.  If it was long, it didn't limply hang down.  It curled up and the humidity made it look like a frizzy mess. And of course, I wasn't blond.  That gave me two reasons to gripe about my hair - not straight and not blond.

My mom began to  straighten my hair when I hit that magical 13th year.  Then, instead of sending me outside with curlers and oftentimes a scarf to cover them up, I would endure sitting in the kitchen while she applied chemicals close to my brain, used her trusty rollers to 'set' the straightening, and sat me in a chair facing away from the table while a tabletop hair dryer completed the arduous process.  In between this homemade beauty parlor operation, I would take those giant curlers and put two or three at the crown of my head and wrap the rest of my hair around my head, using my cranium as a giant curler.  To even out the wave, I would wake up in the middle of the night to rewrap in the other direction.  All this for a cute class photo!  And the whole ordeal was moot if it began to drizzle.  Or frizzle as was affectionately called rain.

Sometime in the 70's a marketing genius came up with the "Curlers in your hair?  Shame on you!" ad campaign.  Nothing like a good drubbing to get women to buy your product!  Newly introduced electric curlers became popular.  Ladies with straight hair used the heated, spiky curlers to give them a wave, and curly girls endured them to calm their strands down a bit.  Either way, I wasn't a fan.  Especially when I got one of these barbaric cylinders caught in my hair (curly hair and barbed rollers can act like Velcro) and spent more time than I care to recall uncoiling my faux pas with mom's help.  She wanted to grab the scissors and cut it out, and I wanted to save myself from a homestyle 'do' by an angry mother wielding clippers.  Hey mom - it wasn't my fault that these hot rollers weren't really made for kinky hair.

I also started to shave my legs and underarms around the teenage milestone.  This came with a bit more instruction than how to deal with unruly locks.  There was shave cream, and sharp objects and a warning to not leave any evidence in the tub when I was done conforming to a ridiculous societal standard.  I was told to never share my razor or use dad's because it would cause cuts on his face if I had used it on my legs.  If I didn't want to risk cutting myself I could use Nair and then, if I was daring, don short shorts.  If I wanted a more safe shave a nifty five blade doohickey was introduced, and this razor was popular among the new to shaving crowd.

I started to not worry so much about my hair when I moved out west.  The drier climate actually helped my tresses improve.  If I took the time and trouble to blow-dry my hair, I didn't sweat as I went, and that shortened the process substantially.  I grew my hair long at the same time I decided that shaving was ridiculous.  There were a few years in my early twenties when I just want au natural.  This included many aspects of my life.  I visited a Nurse Practitioner for my girly needs instead of an OB/GYN.  I started shopping at Vitamin Cottage in Cherry Creek North. (It wasn't called that then)  I put Celestial Seasoning tea bags in a gallon sized pitcher and made copious amounts of sun-tea.

A few years of that hippie phase and I settled down a bit and caved in to conformity. I kept my hair presentable.  I shaved parts seen and unseen.  I bought the requisite products associated with beauty and gave it a try.  Makeup?  Not a fan.  A morning hair routine?  No thanks, a ponytail can tame it all in.  Shaving?  Well, as a young woman I had more hair than I do now, so I at least shaved seasonally or for special occasions.

After a few years of dying my hair, at first for fun and fashion, and then for keeping up appearances, I decided to stop.  My daughter-in-law was pregnant with my first grandchild, and I figured this gave me a free pass to not color my tresses anymore.  The growing out time is arduous.  A clear line in the sand of my hair so to speak.  So, as my natural color gradually color grew in, I also attacked from the bottom up, by having my daughter cut the unnatural parts away.  Honestly, had I known my grey would be of the salt and pepper variety, I wouldn't have tried to hide it in the first place.

A little personal information here.  I am on some serious medications to stave off the crippling effects of rheumatoid arthritis.  I inject myself five times per month with two different drugs to help maintain an ambulatory status.  My weekly jab is a low dose chemotherapy drug that has side effects.  Thinning hair and outright hair loss are at the top of the list.  Dry skin and brittle nails follow that.  I have had all of these happen to me.  My hair was literally see-through at my shoulders.  I had to vigorously wipe the tub out after every shower, from shampooing, not shaving!  I've spent money on biotin, pre-natal vitamins (At my age!) and expensive shampoo and conditioner.  It is hard to assess if it worked or not.  

An unintended bonus of aging and medications has been the lack of hair growth on my legs, my pits and nether regions.  I began shaving and grooming less and less.  I stopped shaving altogether between Labor Day and Memorial Day.  Why bother?  There was hardly a whisker to be had and I thought it was more irritating to my skin than the outcome was worth.  I bought a unitard bathing suit for my indoor wintry laps, so no one was the wiser.  The last time I took a razor to skin was December of 2019.  I had a trip planned to see my sister in Florida and thought if there was anyone that would comment on my (not-so) hairy status, it would be my sibling.  I remember being in the shower and doing the deed and thinking maybe this will be it.  There was no reason to even wipe the tub, the result was so scant.  I didn't bother to pack a razor.  That didn't do much to lighten my load, but it did brighten my outlook.

When the pandemic hit in spring of 2020, I started to reassess having shoulder length locks.  On a hot day in July, when it seemed safe to socialize with other human beings, I headed to my daughter's house and asked her to give me a short, new 'do'.  She did due diligence by interrogating me; Are you sure?  If you don't like it, it'll take a while to grow back.  I stood my ground and she clipped away.  I didn't cry at the result.  In fact, I was elated.

I've given up many things as I have entered my sixth decade of living.  Pants with zippers, bras with underwires, toxic friendships.  I don't regret any of it.  In fact, I love my short hair and only have to occasionally pluck a rogue underarm strand.  

And this my friends, is my true confession of how I traded vanity for sanity!

 

                                                          All that hair back in the seventies!

                                                           Short and Sassy in my Sixties!