Here's me as a baby--in the newspaper. You can see I wasn't happy with my hairstyle. The caption says: "ALL THESE WOMEN!--Troy Cady, minus his trousers, looks a little bewildered and distressed by all the females around him." I think I was upset because I couldn't have hair like theirs.
Then came "the flat look". Not parted, just combed straight, flat.
My hockey, unkempt look:
Next, the flippy look.
I have wings here. This was intentional and it took a bit of work to get it to look like that. Here are instructions in case you want to do this yourself: after showering, keep your hair wet. Comb it straight, then, WHILE IT IS STILL WET, flail your hands about underneath the fringe of your hair as if you are attempting to fling a booger off the end of both index fingers by the sheer power of centrifugal force. Voila! Hair that drives the babes nuts.
Okay, next: the curly phase. This was junior high, by the way. Think "hormones raging". Uh huh.
Emerging out the other side of puberty, this is me in high school. Behold, the next mutation in STYLE.
Normally, however, my hair was not so straight. Usually it had a little wave to it. Here's an example.
And now: the bald me. Such a hairstyle deserves a serious pose.
I think Troy picked this topic because I recently got my hair cut, in an ongoing saga wherein I have been trying to get a cut I found on a Pantene model. The fact that the girl modeled hair, professionally, perhaps should have dissuaded me from such pursuits. But I am nothing, if not persistent. So, last week, having summoned my courage, and enough discontent with my hair, I went forth again.
I went to see “J” (for his privacy he shall remain nameless) because Mary recommended him. He proceeded to bombard me with straight-forward comments/questions about my hair.
“You have really fine hair.” Yes, I know.
“You have lots of grey hair.” Yes, I know. Sometimes I color them away, lately, not so much.
“Where did you get your last haircut?” Mumble name of cheap chain hair salon, of which he clearly disapproves.
“How long ago?” Um, more than six months? I avoid telling him the part where I may have trimmed off some bits at home myself. Does he really need to know?
Finally, the kicker: “You can never have that hair.” (Referring to said photo.) He explained that since I have such FINE hair, I could never reach the heights of that hair glory. OK, fair enough, at least someone finally told me straight!
So now we shall see, if I choose to maintain the lesser version of said hairstyle or if I give up and let it grow out again. The jury is still out.