Hair

That's me at my college graduation in 1973.

My hair was loooong, wasn't it?  If I tipped my head back just a little bit I could sit on the end of my pony tail.

Half-back like this or wildly flying around my face or pulled low in a leather thong, my hair defined me.

Arriving at the University of Chicago for Orientation as I began my social work education, the room was filled with well-manicured, perfectly coiffed men and women.... until I looked to the back and saw a row of men with hair as long as mine.  Like a semaphore signal, their tresses were calling me.  Here were kindred spirits, sitting with the only other woman in overalls.  We're still friends to this day.

Spending the morning at Prince Elementary School's Jump Rope for Heart last week gave me the opportunity to revel in what long hair is doing these days.

There are, of course, long braids decorated with colorful ties. 

I remember G'ma pulling and brushing and gathering all the lost strands of my tresses into the tightest of tight pony tails every day before school.  I could feel her with me all day long, every time my hair swished and reminded me that it was there.

No one took the time to try this, though.

Nor this

Nor this

I wore silver barrettes when I needed to look dressy, but I never had anything approaching this

or this

or this

The hair didn't interfere with the running and jumping and racing.

It was there for the enjoyment of those on the outside... especially the other girls.

The boys were oblivious.

"What are you taking a picture of?  Her head?" said he.

"Her hair...her beautiful hair," said I.

"Really?  Why?" he wondered.

As TBG reminds me, women do their hair for other women.

According to him, there has never been a group of men who, upon seeing a beautiful female, exclaimed in one voice "What fabulous hair!"

I, on the other hand, spent a morning doing just that.