I promise not to let my personal tragedy interfere with my ability to do good hair

I attended a writers' workshop at Duke a year ago under the instruction of an immensely talented local writer named Bridget Lacey. During the class, she related a story of a phone call she made to her mother when she was a young, struggling writer.

She told her mother that she had no money and had to choose between paying the heating bill and getting her hair done. Her mother replied, "If you keep your hair done, you can find some heat."

How could I not relate to that? My Sainted Southern Mother grew up in the days when women had their hair set a couple of times a week, rarely washed it for fear of losing the style, and slept in rollers wrapped with toilet paper. Of all the graces she instilled in me, the importance of hair care stands out: I would skip meals for a week to save up to get my roots done if I had no other choice.

So I present to you pictures from a lifetime in hair. Snarky and compassionate comments are welcomed.

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I pioneered the faux-hawk.


Ages 1-4, the "boy cut." My mother was young, but she was smart: My haircut was easy for her to manage and allowed her plenty of time to work on hers.


Ages 5-12, the "long and parted 70s girl," complete with home-cut bangs.



Age 13 saw the passing of the torch from a small-town mother to daughter; I got my first perm.


Age 15, I went with my aunt to a stylist at Wrightsville Beach and got my first pink highlights. I came home swelling with the rebellion of an adolescent girl, waiting for my mother's reaction. She said, "Well, you're the one who has to walk around this town looking like that." I was undaunted for a couple of days, until the most outrageous rocker girl at our school -- a senior -- asked me to introduce her at the assembly when she was running for student body president. I strode out confidently and started speaking before the mocking laughter of the 600 gathered small-town, mid-80s kids drowned out my thoughts. I didn't cry, though I did go home and beg my mother to take me to the beauty parlor.

In order to cut out my color, we segued into Ultimate Girl Mullet, then I went on my first trip to New York with my aunt.

After that, I grew my hair out and got a perm.


And that perm got bigger...


And bigger...


Until I went away to the University of London for the first semester of my sophomore year at college. I was extremely stingy with my weekly food stipend -- my only income as I hadn't done a good job working the summer before to save up -- but I walked into a salon by our underground stop in Queensway and asked the woman who could take me to just trim my hair and dye it burgundy.

She, thankfully, ignored me outright. She cut 7 inches of grown-out perm off, then bleached my hair to a pale ash. When she spun me around to the mirror to show me, I was at once horrified that she'd made me look just like her and delighted that she did. And I didn't mind my two future weeks of soup and ale for dinner. Oh, no, we never skipped our nights at the pub. Food, however, was an afterthought.




We came back to the states, back to being underage again, and finished college. I moved to Raleigh, got a really crappy job in publishing and started wearing my hair long and blonde, as I, for whatever reason (my family certainly didn't put it on me), thought it was time to find a husband. So I wore it this way for years:


And the years flew by. Suddenly, I was 30, living alone and working in a national advertising agency that had no dress code. So I started making the most of my favorite accessory. And life became good.

I give you:

The drama club kids pose with the principal and his wife.


I am a sunflower:


Why settle for one hair color when you could have three?


I don't have kids, so I didn't understand why small children shouted "Lava Girl!" at me around the time I first met and fell for Mr. Sweetypants.


Six months later, we got engaged.


Another six months later, we were married. I chose "deadly nightshade" for my hair and for my girls' dresses.



And now, two years later, my darling Mr. Sweetypants still puts up with me on a daily basis.


Bless his heart.

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Anna at Studio 180 is the artist; I am the canvas.