Bobby pins. Two small words, enough to send me into therapy.
From the age of three, I was introduced to excessive hair curling. It may be the reason for my wackiness now. Wound too tight in spit curls.
I recall all too well, sitting in front of the TV watching: Mary Tyler Moore, Rhoda, and Streets of San Francisco as my personal hairstylist, (Mom) would take my freshly washed (Prell Shampoo) hair and towel dry to dampness. I would sit with a BUTTLOAD of Bobby pins in my lap. On a side note, why are they called Bobby pins? I hated Bobby. And, his freakin’ pins!
I would sit “Indian style” on the floor. Remember that phrase, now it would be called “Native American” style….but in the 70’s you could say “Indian Style.” You could also say “Indian Giver,” but ya’ can’t say it now without be considered, “inconsiderate.”
But, I digress.
Back to my lap full of Bobby pins and the “big ass” turquoise AVON comb for my mother to pull the tangles; sectioning my long, brown hair with spit. Okay… a little spritz of water (from the same water bottle she would mist the macramé adorned, house plants and ferns). She
didn’t take the “spit curl” literally. Thank God. Mom would “criss-cross” each Bobby pin, to get the desired effect. Curls by morning accompanied by a throbbing headache. We did this dance for nearly ten years.
My mother, being very fashion conscious in the late 70’s and
early 80’s… believed that certain colors looked better on me than others. She even invested in the ever popular book, Color Me Beautiful by JoAnne Richmond. A conversational “coffeetable- must have” indeed. This book described your color palette in “seasons." It was discovered that I was an “Autumn.”
As an Autumn, I wore a closet full of rust, maroon, burgundy and red clothing. Luckily, I had a variety of fabrics to “spice up” my very red
wardrobe. Corduroy, velour, crushed velvet and the ever popular plaids completed my look.
And, long socks. Did I mention the long, wool socks? They covered my very hairy, Italian legs. I wasn’t introduced to Nair until 7th grade, so wool socks were my friend. And, no outfit was complete without an itchy, acrylic sweater. Red, of course.
Did I mention I grew up in Irvine, California? Not Alaska, as some might think.
It should go without saying, I hated going to school. I looked a little quirky in my curly locks, crimson and wool. But, living in sunny Southern California was really the wrong place for this East Coast/New
Jersey style. I secretly wished my parents would embrace a new fresh look in California. Instead, they were trying to bring Jersey to Cali…talk about an East Coast -West Coast rivalry!
I was fortunate to have a stay at home mom, who would pack my Charlie’s Angels lunchbox, sometimes surprising me with Chef Boy R Dee Ravioli in the Thermos. That one move stained my Thermos for the year. Red. At least it matched my wardrobe.
Mom would also parent-volunteer for art projects too. She offered to teach my 5th grade class to make Root Beer Float candles. My classmates loved her creative candles and the way she whisked the white wax for foam on top of the candle. Mom enjoyed this project so much, it repeated through the eighth grade. Yes, right through St Cecilia’s Catholic School, the red tartan skirt and white peter pan collared shirt.
Little did I know, she would take this volunteering to the next level and by High school, she would become a substitute teacher… at my school. No amount of therapy can alleviate this period of my life. Mom didn’t have compassion for the teasing that would take place because my mom was the sub. I didn’t have compassion, either. I saw this act as her sabotaging my teenagecareer. I wished she had stuck with the tacky
candles and left her mark there. But you can’t change your childhood. Only years later, you can change your perspective.
Fast forward, to the present. My mother decided that the color “red” looks best on her head. She is now a “full bodied red head “and still on the hunt for hair curlers to give her the best fullness. She recently found herself on eBay and considered “buying someone else’s” Clairol hot rollers. That is, until I told her how disgusting it is to buy used curlers. Mom says, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.” She liked the pins that came with that particular model.
I am now forty something and curl free. And, on most days… pretty normal.
I came out of this unscathed.
As for my closet…nothing red or Autumn- colored exists. I run from Red. No wool socks are allowed to darken our drawers. However, my bathroom drawers do hold a few Bobby pins…for my daughter’s Gymnastics-required hairstyles, ONLY! I admit that I own: hot rollers, three curling irons and a flat iron, too. But, the flat iron is my favorite. My husband prefers my hair straight... and truth be told, I do too!
Thank you Mom…for curly hair, crimson clothes and being…my
Mom.
