When I was a child, I always sported a pixie cut.

I HATED it (even though, in hindsight, I must admit I did look fucking adorable). But my Mom said until I could take care of my own hair, I was going to have short hair.

Fast forward to my teens. Finally, hirsute freedom arrives and I start growing my hair out. Lucky for me it was the time of straight long hair, because I had no clue what to do with my mop. Curlers prevented me from sleeping and the results were far from satisfactory. Also, give my carefully curled hair a good brushing and every bit of the hard won curls disappeared.

Oddly enough, although my Mom got her hair done every week, she did not instill in me the need to get regular hair cuts. So my long hair was also very scraggly on the ends.

At one point, I decided to get my hair cut and get a perm. I was doing a show, that required me to wear a wig, but part way through the show, us ladies had to remove our wigs and dress like men. That is when Peter Peggly fucked up my hair. I had been referred to Mr. Peggly who was then in beauty school. Peter gave me a nice cut, but the perm didn’t take in the front. Peter assured me that when I got home, I should just wet and “crunch” it and it would be fine. Peter lied. I looked like a sheep dog with mange. Argh. However, that is when I discovered the lost art of setting my hair in pin curls.

These coifing failures did not deter me. By the time I moved to Los Angeles, my hair was almost waist length, and I still didn’t have a clue what to do with it. I did find some success with hot curlers (as long as I also doused my head with super hold hairspray), and if I used pin curls, I could achieve a very cute short curly look. The pin curls required me to thoroughly wet my hair, do the pin curls (hundreds of them and many layers since my hair was so long, and then resoaking my head, and waiting at least 24 hours before taking out the pins. Oh how we suffer for beauty (or vanity).

And speaking of suffering, I could not put my hair into ponytails or into sleek tight buns because this would end with me having excruciating headaches.

Most of the time, my solution was to wad my hair up and loosely pin it on top of my head. A sort of Gibson girl kind of look.

As I hit my 30s my Mom once again intruded on my choice of hairstyle. Every trip home or picture sent lead to my Mom suggesting that perhaps I was now too old for long hair. WTF? First, I’m too young to deal with long hair, now I’m too old to have long hair?

I eventually got tired of the nagging and dealing with the long hair, plus I had found a great hairdresser, so I had her cut my hair to about shoulder length. I also had my hairdresser give me the hair, I put it in a box and mailed it to my Mom with a note saying, “Happy now?” I was kidding – sort of.

Most recently, I went through a bout of very short spiky hair, which I really liked (and still do). But my hair is thinning and my very pink scalp was showing through my almost white hair an that made me uncomfortable. So I’m growing the mop out again.

And after all these years, what do I do with it?

I wad it up and pin it loosely on the top of my head.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.

(The more things change, the more they stay the same.)