Years later, as a blonde, I sat in a hair salon in Zakynthos, Greece. The sun, salt, dry heat and cigarettes were wreaking havoc on my highlighted 1990 hair and the pensione I was staying in had a mere trickle of water in the tub. It was a Saturday, and there were the women: drinking coffee, smoking, bitching about their husbands, some of whom popped in to pick them up later, just like my aunt?s salon when I was a kid. The owner?s two daughters opted to style my hair so they could practice their English. I left looking like Pia Zadora, all pouffy and glossy and shiny and smooth.

My hair, however, belied my state of mind: that liquid state of mind. Those days on that trip, I spent most of my time with two Glaswegian girls. If you?ve ever drank with a Glaswegian, you?ll know what I mean; they were the heaviest hitters I?d ever known.

Every night we?d meet at a local taverna and get blindside-linked up with two older British men, Bob and Frank. One of them had a few missing teeth, a mouth out of The Sun Also Rises. We?d all drink ourselves rowdy stupor.

[snip: I had long abandoned my boyfriend by then, after I was thrown off the back of his motorcycle sans helmet while clad in nothing but a tank top and shorts. Don?t cringe if you can help it, but I lost a lot of skin. No broken bones, though, and the sympathy-drink-factor was large. He was more messed up than I was, but I blamed him. And since the trip was more of a token gesture to keep me on some kind of cross-Atlantic leash after he moved to England, I pretty much ended it then and there and spent my time with the Glasgow girls.]

One particularly animated evening I came up with the idea to have Frank sing Tom Jones tunes while dancing jigs on the table. It causedeus no end of hysteria, that is until the next night, when Bob showed up without Frank.

?Where?s Frank?? we asked, overlapping our trouble like Macbeth?s chorus of witches.

?Oh, he?s in hospital - he had a mild heart attack, but he?ll be okay.?

We expressed concern but Bob waved his hand. ?Oh no, no, he?ll be fine. Whiskey??

Our little chorus affirmed and the night continued.

?Your hair looks fanTAStic!? Bob opined.

I love hair products; I love hair; not just mine?I love yours, anyone?s. There were childhood Saturdays in an aunt?s beauty salon, watching the intracies of updo?s unfolding, the smell of peroxide and perms and giant cans of lacquer and cigarette smoke, making extra change getting coffee (?regular, milk and two sugars?) for the ladies. They?d give me a wig head to practice on when I was getting coffee and I had my first wiglet at seven, for my aunt?s wedding. I think nothing of depositing an unemployment check then buying a $40 bottle of Kerastase (truly the best shampoo ever - ever, but I respect your opinion too, because it?s personal.)

I know vanity is one of the seven deadlies and I?ve got it with my hair. Mia cara amica Catherine also struggles with periods of unemployment?but regularly travels from Boston to NY to her hair appointment, on those weeks when her hairdresser is in NY and not in his Beverly Hills salon.

?You know - it?s the mane,? she said. I nodded. No explanation necessary! I fully understand the importance of good hair.

My relationship with hair started before I could talk. My aunt, of the above mentioned salon, started on me young. There is a portrait of me at 2 with a Mia Farrow pixie. My mother was livid, because Auntie hadn?t told her she?d be giving me a new ?do before the photo session. Her handiwork can be seen over all of my childhood photos:
from pixie to shag to baby updo (first grade), flip (second grade - sponge rollers), bowl cut (third grade), then moving up to feathered hair through seventh grade (augmented by the discovery of Blondie, Sun-In, and marijuana - but my hair is naturally red, and a spray-on peroxide only resulted in a brighter orange), then perms. By sixteen I had buzzed off the sides and dyed it black, having grown weary of a lifetime of teasing redhead rhymes. Besides, I dug the reverse roots - it was tiger-ish.

Comment: reposted

1. Hey, what about the hard rollers?.I still remember my mother with the Cleopatra eyes- rolling my hair ( in order to tease it into a bee hive later) while I sat on the plastic coverage velvet orange sofa( I used to love the sound that it made when you would peel your legs off real fast)?.Then came the hair dryer. It was great- crocodile zip case with this like vacuum cleaner hose attached to the floral print cap, which would puff up. The sound of a TWA jet flying through your head, while the full metal, uncoated bobbypins dented my head, while they heated up? While I tried to watch the Mac Davis show, (but couldn?t hear anything.) Then came the tease, back combing frenzy. What a sight, a five year old with a giant beehive to go to kindergarten the next day with. Then came all the instruction on how a lady sleeps with her newly done do, or not sleep as the case may be. – Jeni