“Mine” is an interesting challenge for a photo. What do any of us really possess? My car isn’t really “mine”; rather its the family’s. My house isn’t “mine.” I didn’t make the clothes I wear. But my hair? That’s mine!!
This is a photo from the early ’50s, right before my first haircut. As you can see, it’s long. I loved my hair. Each morning Mother braided both my hair and my sister’s hair. We’d moved from Arkansas to Kansas shortly before this photo and the combination of hair to braid before school and more two more pre-school children got to be too much. I had to get my hair cut.
I remember putting up quite a fight. And because I became so angry and wouldn’t agree to the cutting, I had to stay home when the family went somewhere, maybe Marysville, for a Jerry Lewis movie. That’s what I remember: getting punished for wanting to keep what was “mine.”
I also remember really dreadful home permanents which made my short hair look pretty goofy.
Needless to say, as I got older and could take care of my own hair, most of the time it was long. Never as long as in this photo, but almost. I can’t tell you how much money I’ve spent on my hair over the years. And each time I move, the most important thing I have to find, even more important than a home, is a good hairdresser. Currently, I make a 45 minute drive to get my hair cut and she’s been cutting it for years.
So while I don’t have a real possessive streak about much of anything, even if I don’t want to lose it, I am possessive about my hair.
Hair. That’s what’s MINE.
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