Hair

I’ve recently noticed a few grey hairs on my head.

Actually, I’m kind of glad about that. I’ve recently crept into my late forties and have yet to get any grey hair at all. I’m tired of people wondering if I color my hair and now I can point to evidence that I, indeed, do not.

Growing up in my little bitty home town in Texas in the seventies was a constant battle with hair length for me. My high school had a very strict and conservative dress code when it came to hair length for boys. Only the tops of the ears could be covered and it couldn’t be below the top of the collar. I hated that.

Growing up in my little bitty Southern Baptist church in my little bitty home town in Texas in the 70’s caused an even greater battle with regard to my hair.

First of all, I need to give you an idea of how utterly conservative my home town Baptist church was:

Never once did I hear anything about homosexuality preached from the pulpit or in Sunday school. The subject of sex was never even addressed. Ever.

Regarding the subject of abortion, well, this was right during Roe v. Wade and I never once heard anything against legalized abortion from anyone in my home town church.

You see, back in the early seventies, for a proper Baptist young lady from a well-respected family, “getting into trouble” would be just about the worst thing ever. EVER. So, having safe, legal abortions available was just about the best thing ever back then.

Reputation trumped ethics, hands down.

Also, I remember overhearing one of the old church ladies (her name was Tommie) once saying: “If abortion wasn’t available, why, just think how many Mexicans there’d be!”

That, my friends, is how conservative my home-town church was.

So, I remember the looks of consternation I received when I was sixteen and walked into church with my hair parted in the middle and with feathered wings. Remembered feathered wings in the seventies? Oh. My. God. You would have thought I’d just announced I was a Communist or something. But I loved my moment of rebellion, flaunting my feathered wings to the little old ladies who were afraid that Mexicans were about to take over the world.

Then, I went to college and majored in music. This was the late seventies. Oh boy! Did I enjoy growing my hair out. Years of small-town oppression caused me to grow it as long as I wanted. Remember Jhirmack hair products? I used them all and I sure had purdy hair. I remember coming home from college with my David Cassidy-esque hair and my dad giving a laugh saying, “I’m gonna get out my pocket knife!”

I just made an appointment with Bob, my haircutter. Bob does a great job at wielding a hair style that covers my slightly receding hairline so well.

I’ll bet he could even give me feathered wings if I wanted them.