T is for Tresses: A to Z Blogging Challenge 2018

I've never been a big fan of people touching my hair. No good has ever come from it. 

In Elementry School, Mama immortalized me in a boufont that attracted bees, and crooked bangs that grew shorter and more crooked with every trim thanks to an uncooperative cowlick. 

By the time I was a 7th grader in Junior High, Farrah Faucet and her multilayered flowing shag were popular.  I  allowed Cindys beautician Mom to cut my hair. She must not have watched "Charlies Angels" because my shag consisted of two layers. Two. It's hard to shag or flow with only two layers.

In 9th grade I overheard one of my friends talking about going to the local beauty school. She always had great hair, so off to the beauty school I went.  I lucked out and got a Senior cutting for her final exam. The wedge sported by Ice Skater Dorothy Hamill was all the rage, and although it was much shorter than I was comforrable with,  I allowed her to cut my hair in a wedge.  Her evaluater was a  helicopter examiner that hovered and made us all nervous. When she finally finished, my hair looked awesome; however, it had taken all afternoon. We were frazzled.

Later, when Karen commented on how good my hair looked, and I told her where I went, she gasped. She never actually had her hair done at the beauty school--She had just considered it. I realized I had dodged a bullet on that one.

Over the years my blonde hair darkened and became more dishwatery. The summer before my Senior year in High School, my best friend and I decided we would be blonde again and we died our hair. Ourselves. We were stunning. At least at first.

I envisioned my senior portrait as an angel  with flowing blonde lockes. At least that was the plan:  I would wear a black v-necked drape in front of a black velvet backdrop. The contrast would produce a lovely glowing aura.

My Senior Portait has a contrast alright, but brass is slightly less than angelic. I swore off hair color for life. But it could have been worse...

Besty, was back to her natural hair color for Senior Portrait Day, but only after an unfortunate chlorine pool incident turned her hair green, necessitating a trip to the beauty salon for a professional hair color do-over. 

BIG hair rolled around and found me rolling my hair for home perms during the eighties. I'd had tried two, maybe three perms at beauty salons previously, but always ended up looking like a poodle. I remembered Mama giving herself home perms, so I decided I would do it myself. I used slightly larger rods, left the solution on a few minutes less than recommended, and my home perms actually looked less poodlish than the professional ones for which I had paid big bucks.

One of my crowing achievements during Nursing School was learning to French Braid my hair.  During the nineties my tight French Braids and buns loosened up and worked themselves into messy buns and simple pony tails.  When my nursing focus became less bedside clinical, the pony tails became simple headbands.

In my 40s readers replaced the headbands. The grey I had been ignoring was no longer easily hidden. During a last minute unplanned vacation, I walked into an Ulta store for a spur of the moment hair cut that ended up sending me back down the hair color isle.

The cut ended up being a longer version of a bowl cut. She didn't have time for color but we discussed my long ago summer experience. She recommended I stay away from warmer colors--especially ash tones.  She also suggested I combine several colors to pick up high and low lights. I chose a dark, non-ashy blonde, added 1/3-1/4 light brown, and a touch of pale auburn.  It turned out to be my favorite combintion, and for over a decade that's what I did.

In my fifties I decided to cut my hair shorter. I tried a couple bargan places but the stylist turnover was high and I rarely saw the same person. I even watched you tube videos  and tried cutting my hair myself. I revisited ponytails until the cut lines were less obviousit done by a non-professional.

For a year or so I followed the  stylist of a  friend.  When I say followed, I mean actually followed her from one salon to another. I eventually changed to another stylist, but she dropped her newest clients  when she became the manager.  So I was stylist shopping again.

A couple years ago I exited my  credit union and saw one of those "winner of best..." signs hanging over the door of the posh boutique across the way.  On a whim I stopped in and met my favorite stylist.

Tawnie listened. She remembered. She cut beautifully. But she was pricey, so I continued my home color until I decided to go natural. To make the skunk-root transition less stinky, I decided to just do very blonde highlights using a cap and crochet hook.  My highlights looked awesome.

After seeing Tawnie a few times, I told her I wanted to go shorter. Knowing my aversion to short hair we eased into short hair over several sessions. Each cut received raves. The second to last time I saw her when she asked "What are we doing today?"

I asked for a recommendation.

She said, "Your hair would look nice stacked."  

On a whim I said, "Let's go for it."

We decided to ease into the stacks. She did such a great job, total strangers commented on my hair. I told everyone to go see Tawnie.

Then she moved. Out of state. Not even a neighboring state, so there would be no chance of hair-do road trips.  I asked for a stylist recommendation...

I've had my first cut with Kayla, and Tawnie was right--she's great. We are gradually going shorter with my stacked bob.  So far I'm loving the look and ease of styling.

My hair and I have come a long way over the decades. I've become more trusting and actually enjoy trips to the salon. As I've grown more trusting I've also started considering being a tad bit more daring.

In fact, I haven't told Kayla yet, but I'm toying with adding some peek-a-boo color.

The bright multicolor rainbow I really want to do might be a bit much, but don't be surprised to see me with purple peek-a-boo hair this football season.

Go Cru!