Blame It on Alcohol, Bad Judgment and Late Night TV

In the words of the old rock song, "Almost cut my hair last night." But I didn't. My memories took me back to the last time I did that on a whim, which was in 1972. And the results were not good. And somehow I knew that if I tried it now, the same thing would be the case.

Last night I was dealing with a snarl that refused to untangle, a knotted mass that wouldn't come out. In 1972 I was dealing with boredom. My parents were out of the country - Jamaica I think - and being I was 17 and my brother Tom was 15, we were deemed old enough to watch over our three younger siblings with a little help from Grandma Dewall checking in on us. (She lived just down the block from our house on Lane Place, and she felt it her sacred duty to make sure we were eating properly. But that's another story for another time.)

Everyone had gone to bed, and I'd managed to get my hands on some alcohol, or maybe it was weed. Doesn't matter; the result was the same - I was a bit judgment impaired. And I was watching late-night TV, a movie called 'Maybe I'll Come Home in the Spring.'

A young Sally Field was the star, and this was a big departure from her squeaky-clean image as Gidget or the Flying Nun. The story centered around her as a teenage runaway who had left home to become a hippie (oh, my wildest dreams!) I could identify with her character; I had more than my share of conflicts with my parents and looked forward to being 18 and gone. Unfortunately I got my wish when shortly after my 18th birthday my parents showed me the door when they found out I was pregnant. But again, another story.

So this messed-up girl decided to come back home, finding out what she thought was the answer for her wasn't all she thought it would be. Her welcome home was anything but warm, and she was struggling with a fresh start. For some reason - which I don't recall - she decided to cut her hair when her parents were gone. She pulled her long hair up into a ponytail on top of her head and chopped her hair off. Result? Really cute shag hair cut, very popular at the time. (Photo above, courtesy of http://every70smovie.blogspot.com, shows her result.)

I loved the look, and it was time for a change. (If you flip through my yearbook or you knew me back then, I changed my hair often - style, color, you name it. So this wasn't unusual.) Found my mom's sewing scissors (hey, I couldn't use the kitchen poultry shears), and did the same. My result was far from the cute hairdo Sally Field ended up with. And there was hair all over the bathroom. Took me quite awhile to clean that up.

When my parents got home 'shock' is probably the best description. I recall my mother saying something about knowing I couldn't be trusted to be left alone. And the next day she marched me off to her hair stylist for what can only be called damage control, made very necessary by the fact that my senior pictures were scheduled for later that week. Unfortunately her hair stylist and I had a troubled history. The woman had cut my hair for my confirmation photos several years before, resulting in a lot of tears on my part and longing for it to grow out quickly. She'd also done my hair when my cousin Nancy Dewall and I were chosen to serve beverages at another cousin's wedding. The resulting hairdo was atrocious, and I spent the entire reception in embarrassment. So I wasn't holding out hope for this hair adventure to be any different.

And it wasn't. She converted my DIY shag into a bouffant mess with plenty of teasing and hair spray. My mom had scheduled the hair cut the morning before my pictures, so I was instructed to get on the bus and go downtown to the photo studio straight from the hair salon. At least the stylist was kind enough to help me with my makeup, which maybe made up for that awful hair-do. And she tied a chiffon scarf over it so the wind wouldn't blow her creation apart. (I still cringe whenever I look at my senior picture in my yearbook. This is it.)

I have cut my own hair many times over the years since then, always deliberately and carefully, having had some basic training from a stylist friend. (Sandy Simon, thank you!) And it's usually turned out well. But I know that impulsive actions are rarely good, so in this case, remembering the past, I put down the scissors and sat on the couch with a hair pick and some detangler and slowly worked that bird's nest apart. The tangle came out, but I clearly need some professional help.

Note to self: schedule a REAL hair cut with your favorite stylist this week.