I dropped into a hair-cuttery type place in Annapolis Mall today, telling a woman that I need my hair trimmed but if she wanted to style it, she could do whatever she thinks will look good, I don't care. Knowing that whatever cut she has in mind will look better than what I can articulate, and also knowing I'll have to battle Ohio hair, it matters little to me at this point in my life what kind of cut someone actually performs on my hair.
What's Ohio hair, you ask? We'll get there. Ginger shampoos my hair, asking who I am and what I do in life, so I tell her I'm at Ohio State working in admissions, finishing up my 2nd year of grad school. Ginger tells me that she's been taking paralegal classes as well as Spanish classes. Her husband is Mexican, and Ginger cooks Mexican food with him, speaks Spanish with all his relatives, travels to Mexico once a year, and watches Spanish language soap operas. I mention that I'm jealous of her language skills, and while I traveled to Spain this summer, I felt like an American fool not being able to speak Spanish. We talk about Sangria and the importance of having language skills, and at this point I'm pretty much convinced -we're bff.
"You have great hair," Ginger tells me, "we'll just get a little body into it."
I thank Ginger for the compliment and wait for her to finish up my Ohio hair.
The key to Ohio hair has nothing to do with cut - it's all about piling in products and maximizing volume. The higher, the better. It might actually be general midwestern hair, but I'm not entirely sure as the only midwestern state I've actually lived in is Ohio. A consequence of having hair that's flatter than the 42 inch plasma tv in any upper middle class home is that hair dressers always overcompensate when styling my hair - rather than add a little bit of life to it, they engage in secret contests with one another, with a cash prize for whoever can make my hair touch the ceiling.
I've perfected un-Ohioing my hair, and as I walk out of Ginger's salon and back into Annapolis mall, I break a hair brush out of my purse and proceed to yank the volume out of my hair with it. I suppose I had it coming, since I told Ginger I live in Ohio, and besides, I'm used to this constant dissatisfaction with the absurd level of volume my hair has whenever I leave a salon.
So, I walk around the mall in search of peace sign accessories -you know, to maximize my individuality through consumption of mass produced items that make a mockery of my personal values by placing capitalistic values on them - when I see Ginger on her cell phone, obviously on a break from work.
Now, I've got a relationship with this woman. I spent 30 minutes of my life listening to her educational and career plans, bonding with her over our love for sangria, and yes, even talking to her about my intended breast reduction surgery in December. I've even made a commitment to seeing her again for a haircut next time I'm in Maryland in December, less so because I'm thrilled with her haircut and more because I am interested in her personal life. This is no stranger - this is a friend whose feelings I care about.
I can't let her see that my Ohio hair has flattened into hair that doesn't scrape the doorframe when I walk into a room, so I duck into the Charlotte Russe store, hiding behind a mannequin wearing skinny jeans and a sequined tank top.
Seeing the skinny jeans, I flash back to a conversation I had with my mom last night that went something like this:
"Are you wearing skinny jeans?" Me
"Yea, so?" Mom
"You can't wear skinny jeans!" Me
"Why not?" Mom
"You're in your forties. Deal with it!" Me
In reality I was thinking it's super annoying that my mom looks better in skinny jeans than I ever would, a fact not lost on my surgeon this morning who told my mom in a genuine tone that she couldn't believe she was my mom, she looked more like an older sister. She told me I should be happy I have those genes to grow into.
Genes? Fine. Skinny jeans? Not on my 44 year old Mom, thanks.
I couldn't help but wonder if it was fate that brought me and that Charlotte Russe mannequin together. My mom can pull off skinny jeans, I think to myself. Not having had time lately to do some much needed jeans shopping, I decide there's no harm in seeing if I really do share her genes, and I head over to the wall of denim jeans, ready to explore the world of skinny. The sign reads that jeans are on sale for $19.99, and I realize it really might be destiny.
Standing at the jeans wall, I notice I have three choices: extreme skinny, casual skinny, and everyday skinny. What to do? It's at this point I wish I have a fashion conscious friend with me to tell me what makes sense, and I experience momentary panic over which jeans are an appropriate first pair of skinny jeans.
Extreme skinny jeans? No no, too radical for my first foray into the world of skinny jeans. I'm definitely not ready for that. Somewhere in processing what extreme skinny jeans might be in comparison to classic skinny jeans, I remember that I can take more than one item into the dressing room and grab one of each. I try on the classic skinny jeans, figuring that's a good place to start, and while they fit only because Charlotte Russe actually has "short" sizes, I'm not sure how they actually look on me.
Shopping, when not for peace sign accessories, utterly terrifies me. In college, Carolyn was practically my personal shopper, being bluntly honest when a certain color looked terrible on me, or telling me to go for it and show off my legs in a slutty skirt. What would Carolyn say, I think, and remembering that I'm seeing her for dinner tomorrow, I reason that I could always try them on for her and return them if she disapproved. I text her for her quick opinion on skinny jeans, getting no response and I remember she went camping with her boyfriend for the evening.
Next, I take a picture on my phone of me in skinny jeans, texting it to my mom and asking her if I can pull them off. "Just go 4 it lol" she replies in text speak, and I realize for the first time that my mom may just be cooler than me.
When I tried on the everyday skinny jeans, I decided that my butt looks too flat, and to go big or go home - it's time for the extreme skinny jeans.
Hmm, I think. These actually look... damn good on me, I realize. When I shimmy out of them, my right leg gets stuck, and I hop on my left leg struggling to get the damn things off. After I bump into the stall door and hit my head in this process, I decide that my initial instinct was right, and I am nowhere near ready for extreme skinny jeans until I get my sea legs.
Classic -definitely go with the classic, I think. And make my way over to the cashier.
On the one hand, I love having so many choices when I shop. I can buy peace sign bracelets, necklaces, earrings, bags, shirts, and the list goes on. And while I am annoyed by the peace sign trend, having had a peace sign tattooed on my hip three years ago because it meant something to me, it's still nice to have things that just look like things I'd love to wear. And jeans? One of my least favorite things to shop for, but if I wish I can try three different kinds of skinny jeans, and who knows how many kinds of boot cut, straight leg, flare, or other kinds of jeans I've never even heard of.
On the other hand, material possessions are such a trap. Buying something to express my "style" that was probably sold to me through mass media even when it's a counter culture type item is still spending my money where people tell me to, and probably going to places that I don't approve of.
It's enough to make me want to go live in a commune, grow my own food, make my own clothes of natural fibers, and at least be sure that I'm not contributing to child labor in a third world country - I can draw my own damn peace signs in the dirt or carve them into home-grown vegetables.
I announced to my family this evening that I want to start a vegetarian, maybe even vegan, hippie commune in the woods and live off the land, while being nice to it in return. My 8 year old sister Jordan told me she wants to help me start it - and we can call it "Veggie Land." This restores my faith that change in the world is possible.
Perhaps one day Jordan can teach me to spend my money in more effective ways than in expressing my love of peace through the purchase of peace sign emblems for every body part. Until then, I continue to make purchasing decisions based on whether an item is as colorful as the rainbow, carries a peace sign on it, or is something that my Mom can pull off so I should be able to, too.
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