I went to a "swanky" haircutting place in April of 1991, and unintentionally got my hair cut into the shape of a french poodle's head. Of course, I didn't know it was going to turn out like that. I thought it was going to be very glamorous and becoming.

When I came home my husband said, "You look like an old lady. Why don't you dye it blue?"

I have never cut my hair since, (except for having the ends trimmed.) I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror today, trying to braid my hair (which I have never figured out how to do.) My arms got tired and I went and sat down across from my husband in our living room. As he was speaking to me I pulled my hair back and put a barrette in it.

"Unique style," Peter said. "You look like Bram Stoker's Dracula -- or Leslie Nielson in "Dracula, Dead and Loving It"".

"Huh?"

"You've got two poofy things like Mickey Mouse's ears up there."

I took the barrette out and let my hair fall loose. I once saw the movie,"Sullivan's Travels", with Veronica Lake. She had long, liquid blond hair, parted on the side, shiny like a Breck girl. It rippled to her shoulders and didn't move. She gave Joel McRae sidelong glances, peeking out from behind the luxuriant, blond waterfall. Bewitching and cool. One wondered if she could turn her head. Whenever I let my hair loose, it's the "Cousin It" effect, all the way. If I sit still it stays put. If I move, it's in my face.

Most of my life, glamour has been a foreign port. I'm a graduate of the Granola Eating, Armpit Hair Growers of America, 1973. I wanted to be a natural woman. Plucking my eyebrows, wearing pantyhose and putting on makeup was not an expression of freedom! Holy epilady, I had razor-free legs. I was "a child of God, walking along the road, going to Yasgur's farm to camp out on the land and set my soul free", woman.

Then around 1979 I took a job in a mall during the Christmas season. I decided to take the plunge and go to a makeup counter at a large department store for a free makeover. The girl behind the counter was tall, thin, blonde, and chic. I timidly sat down on the little stool.

"I don't usually wear make-up, and I thought it would be a good idea if I learned how. Hee hee. I'm only 24, hee hee. I wondered if you could do my face and give me an idea of how it would look. Hee hee. Gulp. I'm actually quite nervous, I've never done this before. Hee hee. Not too much, please, just a little bit, I'm not used to the way it looks. Hee hee. Gulp. Thanks."

I sat patiently on the stool as the girl cleaned my face with cotton balls, wiped it with solutions, rubbed it and sponged it with all kinds of cool, dabbing sensations. "Oh, this is beautiful," she said. "You're going to love this." She oohed and aahed a few more times and then swung the makeup mirror toward me so I could look. "Gee, thanks." I said. The first word that came to mind was "ghoul". I had on black eyeliner, heavy purple eyeshadow and mascara, and dark red lip-liner out lining dark red lips. My look went from 'granola' to 'shameless hussy'.

I went to the ladies room and wiped most of it off.

When I heard the words, "You're going to love this!", I knew it was time to start worrying. In the eighth grade, a lady I sometimes baby-sat for offered to do my hair. She kept saying, "You're going to love this. You're going to love this!" I smiled dumbly at her. When she finished setting my hair and combing and coifing it, she turned me toward the mirror, smiled breathlessly, and said "Ta Da!" I looked in the mirror and saw a french poodle's head. Arf.