Below is a snippet of my hope-to-be-published memoir, Autohairography. If you know of a publisher that’s nice and likes quirky girls, please email me!
[image credit: melisa fernandez]
Shortly thereafter, my army buzz cut grew, grew and grew in patches. Sort of in a Belinda Carlisle way — piecey, chunky and very mullet-like. Had I dyed certain strands pink as the flamingo that graced our front lawn, I could have passed for a 5-year-old cover band frontrunner. With a fabulous band name, such as Pink Flamingo. Or Palm Tree. Palm Tree, of course, as a homage to the shape of my ponytails, sprouting on top of my head in true Allagoptera Arenaria form.
And now that we’re speaking of palm trees, I must divulge into the innermost details of what tropical weather would do when my hair came into contact with Mother Nature’s beast of the ocean. At age six, I recall taking a trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, which was quite a beautiful trip in and of itself. The photographs of me in North Carolina, however, were quite not so beautiful.
If you’ve ever witnessed a rope covered in seaweed on the dock of a lake, you’ll have witnessed my hair the summer of 1990. Well, actually, a rope covered in seaweed on the dock of a lake, but times two hundred. I had SO much hair. Hair that could cover the universe a few times around as if it were merely a ball of yarn sold in the discount bin of Michael’s craft store. And when said hair would meet said seaweed, it was love at first sight. The hair would begin to converse with the seaweed and the seaweed would begin to bat its long, green eyelashes and BOOM: instant lust. The two parties would then become joined at the hip until my mother would call the hairdresser and demand that the two stop seeing each other. For good.
I don’t remember much more of North Carolina other than the seaweed-induced dreadlocks, but I think it was quite fun. I know my head of hair enjoyed itself immensely.
Up next? 1991: Aquanet.