The gentle time of year when the blistering sun is tempered by cooler breezes, the days begin to shorten (and we welcome the extra hour of sleep), and of course, it is the quiet before the speeding train that IS the Holidays.
And for many kids, it is the beginning of the school year. I know I'm a little late with this revelation (after all, kids have been in school for a few weeks now) but as I sit here tonight, sipping some Mirassou pinot noir, and trying to conjure up something relevant and humorous to write about tonight, my mind wandered to an old memory of myself back in the last few months before I entered high school. I had it in my head that I would start this new adventure of a new school and new people with a brand new daring haircut.
And if you've known me all these years, you know how this story ends.
But for those of you who weren't, and whom I never cornered at a party to relay this story to, here's how it begins.
Like most people entering high school, I was nervous about not fitting in. I had spent the years of middle school perfecting an under-the-radar behavior that allowed me to seamlessly exist grade after grade. I wasn't the worst kid in school, and I wasn't the best. I got good enough grades to satisfy my parents and teachers, but I wasn't going to any Gifted and Talented programs.
But with high school looming, and the vast myriad of people I was to encounter, all of whom by then will have developed ways to fit in by not "fitting in", it seemed unsatisfying to just keep going with my mediocre existence. I wanted to stand out--and fit in. And what better way to say, "Here I come world. This is the new and improved Me!" than a makeover!
My mom had helped me on the clothes-front, selecting hip and stylish new threads, but I wanted to go for a really bold haircut, and I knew what I wanted ever since I saw Jamie Lee Curtis on the cover of Redbook. She had this cute, pixie hair style that looks great on her and (bonus) looked incredibly easy to manage. I was sick to death of my wiry, frizzy, thick curly hair- I wanted something fresh. And what says fresh more than a 40-something actress on the cover of a magazine geared towards woman nearing menopause...yeah, I was never hip.
So my mom took me to the salon and when I sat down in the chair, I explained that I wanted it short. Short-short.
"Really?" the stylist said. "Want to change up your look a bit, eh?"
"Yep. Starting high school soon, so I wanted to just try something different. Bold," I said.
"Yeah but not too bold," my mother warned. "I mean, once it's gone, you'll have to wait for it to grow all over again."
"Oh, its hair. It always grows back!" the stylist assured me with a wink.
"Yeah mom...it always grows back," I said, trying to remain upbeat and pushing the growing knot of nerves in my stomach back down. Sure hope this isn't a mistake, the voice in my head said as I began to see clumps of brown curls fall to my feet. I'll be fine, I said back, it'll look cool.
When the moment of truth came, and my chair was turned back for the final reveal, I gulped. Hard. I was staring at a face I didn't recognize. I was in such shock, I didn't know what to think. When my mom picked me up, I didn't say much. "It looks fine," my mom tried. "And like you said, it'll grow back."
Fantastic. It took me thirteen years to grow it the first time. And in thirteen minutes, it was all gone. I called my friends for real opinions. Opinions I could trust and be comforted by.
The laughs I received when I opened my front door were not promising.
"Oh man, you look like Pat Benatar!" one of them wheezed mid-giggle. There was a time when I was heavy into 80s pop music that I would have found that a compliment, but at that moment, I was panicking.
"What the hell am I going to do? I look like Hermie the 'Misfit Elf' from the 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Christmas Special!" I lamented, staring at the odd swoop of hair. It was ironic too, since I still had braces on my teeth as well- so the young, dentistry-inspired Hermie.
"Just wait it out. It'll grow back," they said, trying to calm me down.
And so it was: for our 8th grade dinner dance, for graduation from middle school, and for the whole summer leading up to high school, my look varied from the "Love is a Battlefield" rock singer or a prepubescent male claymation character- it depended on which direction my hair was leaning towards.
In a way, I accomplished my goal to stand out. And by senior year of high school, I was vying for the superlative of "Most Changed Since Freshman Year". I didn't get it, but at least now I have a great awkward story to tell the little Benatars one day.
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