Originally posted on April 16, 2020.

Sheltering in place has afforded me the time to ponder certain things. Today I am pondering my hair. I suppose it’s because I am sporting a stylish pixie these days and I am way overdue for a haircut (and color). Check it out.  Please note, I don’t normally wear that much makeup… or sparkly stuff.  I was prepped for a ballroom competition. Anyway, for the first ten years of my life I sported a very short, not-so-cute (or at least that’s how if felt back then) pixie haircut. That’s me… top row, second from the right.

Photo Credit: Barry Lategan

Every time my mother brought me to see Mrs. Rosenthal (the neighborhood lady who gave haircuts and perms out of her kitchen) I cried. She ALWAYS cut my bangs too short and people routinely mistook me for a boy. I remember my mother’s efforts to console me. “You look like Twiggy,” she would say, but being compared to a mid-sixties anorexic fashion model made famous for androgyny only served to confirm what believed to be true: I look like a boy.

Being mistaken for a boy made me feel ugly and no one wants to feel ugly. The truth is, that is precisely how I felt for most of my childhood, until fourth grade, when my mother finally allowed me to let my hair grow and I vowed never, ever to cut it short again. Ironically, I did…only this time I like it.

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