Jury duty update: Seated as Juror #9 yesterday, I was flicked by the Prosecution today during one of their preemptory challenges. And I'm certain my answer in the affirmative when asked if I thought some drugs should be legalized had nothing whatsoever to do with it. "The truth shall set you free" indeed.
I'm almost as mental about my hair as I am about my weight. I don't have Good Hair. I have baby fine, thin, straight hair that grows about 1 inch per year. When I was young, of all the fairy tale heroines, the one I most wanted to be was Rapunzel. I yearned for long hair that I could wear in two braids, Indian style.(With 20/20 hindsight, I'm glad I didn't look like a brunette version of this in all of our family snapshots!)
But my mother wanted no part of dealing with tangles and snarls and claimed that my hair would look "stringy" if long. So my sister and I had short, short hair throughout our childhoods, which I still blame for never being chosen to be in school plays. Between the ages of 14 and 30, I've grown my hair out to shoulder length or a little longer probably half a dozen times. And in recent years, have gone through growing the layers out until it gets to about chin length. Yet I always end up cutting it short again. My mother was right: it does look stringy.
But it's not just that. I feel more like...me with a short, layered cut. It could be it's just what I'm more accustomed to, but I don't think it's just that. There's something very liberating about short hair, and not just the 20-seconds-blow-dry-and-you're-done aspect. Short hair feels more free than my long hippie tresses ever did. Short hair on a woman is a thumbed nose to conventional beauty, an unfettered ride in a red convertible.
And I've just gone quite short again. Jean Seberg in "À bout de souffle" short. (Except red.)