I promise I won't get a mullet.

  I think I have to break up with my hair. Our relationship is so fickle.  I spend far too much time in my head thinking about my hair. Sometimes I wonder if it is because while I can’t easily change my weight, I can change my hairstyle. I never worried about my weight until my 40s when every year I gained 5 pounds that I never lost.  But weight is for another time. My hair, it’s all about my hair right now.

  In my youth I had long hair. My mother used to put it up in pink, prickly rollers that stung the skull. I remember a rough night of trying to find a comfortable sleeping position, while the steady scratching into my skull of those hard plastic teeth reminded me how painful beauty is. I knew morning would bring my reward. Mom would take out the curlers and my soft auburn curls would fall down upon my shoulders. A good brushing would make it shine and in the mirror I would see the outcome of the long prickly-headed sleep. I was hooked. My Mom had pretty blond hair. My sister had thinner but pretty hair and for a short time in her teens she wore wigs which I thought was cool. I mean hey, we would see Cher on tv with her cool hair in many styles.  Don’t even get me started about Cher’s clothes…damn she was fine. But she couldn’t hold a candle to my first girl celebrity crush Olivia Newton John. Pretty and I must say with a fine head of hair. Of course she had to take up wall space with Donny Osmand. Another person with a fine head of hair.

As a young teen I grew my hair all the way down my back. When blow dried it was a thing of sheer beauty; shiny and thick. I never thought I was pretty but I could sure be proud of my hair. It was a big part of my identity. There was a particular old woman in the mental hospital who loved to stroke it when I visited a friend of mine who had to be there for a while after a breakdown. But that story can wait for another time. I have lots of stories hidden away in the attic of my brain.

  I attended three high schools. Times were tough after my parents divorced and we moved around a bit. I settled into my sophomore and senior years at a small school on the Cape where I quickly changed my hair to match Farrah Fawcett. I painstakingly blow-dried the hell out of it with a round brush to get just the right amount of fullness and curl. One of the popular girls decided she had to have the style and tried her hand at the curly mop. Of course I  believe mine was far superior. I may be a loner and a bit odd but I have good hair bitch. But it really was better. My hair obsession was something to hold onto to keep me sane. I was sleeping in the small pantry off our kitchen so Mom could rent out my bedroom to make some extra money. I won’t even mention the time the police were watching me because they thought I was running drugs…I wasn’t, but again…another story, another time.

  I always had a job after school. First a donut shop where my hair smelled like fried dough after each shift. I was a hostess at a small restaurant that was owned by a school counselor. I think she took pity on my life situation. I appreciated the work. I also remember one small waitress job where the owner was a part time cop and he wanted me to model for him. I didn’t because he wanted the shots taken on the beach in a bikini. He said he liked my Irish looks, freckles and red hair. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life but have also taken the correct course just as many times. No photos for you. Damn, my hair was getting me into trouble.

  My first girl-on-girl relationship; my “coming out” girl, loved my hair. She loved to brush it. She loved my femininity. I would discuss needlepoint with her grandmother and retreat to my lovers room and NOT discuss needlepoint..wink wink nudge nudge. Two weeks later I wanted to taste some dyke freedom and I cut my hair all off and bought new clothes. Needless to say the girlfriend split but I had a new identity complete with a new hairdo to go with it. I would drive to Provincetown with Brylcream in my pocket, slick my hair back and head into the bar where I danced for hours with all the funky people in The Backroom; like the tall, lanky stunning woman who danced with the old gentleman all night and the drugged out young gay-boys dancing with their reflection in the mirrors.  I loved the heavy beat, strobe light and disco. I didn't care about drinking. I just wanted to dance. Dancing was my creative outlet, my safe space and my way to shake off the reek of fucked-up poverty we were in. If I couldn’t get to Ptown I would go to a local gay bar where I smoked a lot of weed and danced the night away. Ah, the 80's. The 80's are why I can't remember shit.

 Where was I? Oh.  My first real love and I had basically the same haircut though hers was dark brown. I didn’t care about hair I just wanted to hold her until the world stopped. When we split up I thought my world had crashed. I got over it eventually and put henna in my hair and ever so briefly sported a mullet…dear God, we do crazy things when upset.

  When I hit 20 I was working full time in retail. My hair grew longer and I started to care for it again. For a brief period of time I lived with 5 other lesbians in a winter rental on the beach. I knew I was in for trouble when they chopped down the only tree in the front yard to be our Christmas tree. Ok, they also made their rent by mud wrestling each other at the local bar. A bar which later one drunken evening I danced on top of.  I digress again. The Cape doesn’t really have mud; it’s more like wet sand. They would come home all scratched up while I came home with smooth skin and a better paycheck. Good times….

  As the years went by and I had kids, mellowed considerably, but that is debatable depending on who you ask, I changed my hair a lot. I had a perm when my son was young. I looked like Little Orphan Annie. But hey, it was so damn hot in Florida it worked for me. If I had taken the time to blow dry my hair I would sweat out the style in five minutes outside. Florida is like leaving a hot shower to step into another hot shower to go into air conditioning and then step back into the hot shower. I don’t understand why humans live there. The alligators will eat them if the cockroaches don’t.

  The last 20 years I have a hair cycle. Grow it, get tired of styling it and cut it off…real short. Then grow it again. I guess it gives me practice in short to long term goals.

  So here I sit tonight pondering my hair and my past. I should be sleeping but I think I’ll Google short haircuts. After all it’s down to my shoulders and I need a change. I promise I won’t get a mullet.