Veronica Lake, Meatballs, and Me
Two Notes From the Editor:
(1) To those of you who have contacted me wondering why I haven't posted in the past couple days, I discovered something that I guess I should tell you. Apparently at this place I come to everyday, they expect me to do some work. Obnoxious, huh?
(2) To those of you who have requested not to be mentioned or quoted, I'll do my best not to use proper names if I think it's embarrassing or offensive, okay?
Blog Time:
So the other day, I was talking to this person, I'll call her...Mom and as I attempted to fix my hair in the mirror, she provided an astounding and amazing 30-second sound bite that I knew immediately had to be shared. I don't remember it verbatim but it went something like this: in those 30-seconds she compared my hairstyle to that of Veronica Lake. And then before I could even respond, she compared my hair to a meatball.
For those of you who cannot immediately visualize - my hair is wavy, it's in a side part, and I guess at that moment, there was a piece of my hair hanging in front of my face. You can see the striking resemblance between me and Veronica Lake here. Also, please note where the link is from - something called "prison potpourri" - it was the first picture to come up on Google Images. Shady.
Anyways, I brushed the hair out of my face and wondered if I should take the Veronica Lake comparison as a compliment. She said it with disdain, but who am I to be upset by a comparison to Veronica Lake. I've had far worse. Like the time I walked onto a bus and this guy yelled out "Hey, it's Blossom!"
As I was absorbing this comment and playing out scenes from Sullivan's Travels in my head, my Mom finished the one-two observation punch by saying that, because I was playing with it too much, my hair was turning into a dense meatball. Because I'm often forced into sous-chef duties at the country house, I knew what she was so sweetly and nimbly trying to convey. For those of you who need further explanation - during the preparation of spaghetti & meatballs, my mom always reminds me that if you play with meatballs too much, they lose their air and fluffiness and become heavy and dense. So, in fact, she was merely pointing out something I myself was responsible for. As I stubbornly played with my hair some more, trying desperately to reverse the meatball effect, I pointed out that I thought my hair was actually looking good these days. After a pause of reflection, my Mom agreed. Here's why.
Phase 1 - Birth. I was born with jet black hair, and a lot of it. I was adorable. People mistook me for being Asian. Which means I was cuter than you Whities out there. Although, it didn't help my cause a couple years later, when I was trying to prove to my sister that I wasn't adopted.
Phase 2 - Ringlet curls. Who doesn't love those on a toddler?
Phase 3 - Hold up, why did someone cut off my ringlet curls? My hair is so short that at 4 years old, I successfully passed as a boy so I could go swimming with my Dad at his sports club. Everyone called me "Stu."
Phase 4 - Perhaps as a rebellion to Phase 3, I continue to let my hair grow, unabated, until it is very long and I wear it almost everyday in two long braids. There is often a Mets hat atop these braids. This is thru 4th grade.
Phase 5 - Hold up, why did someone cut off my braids? Seriously, I went in for a trim and the dude chopped off the braids in their entirety. They hit the floor with a thump. My hair is back to short, like right below my ears. Not quite cute - especially because even though I've abandoned the Mets hat, I'm now wearing one of many baseball hats - but it didn't stop Zach Kurtin from asking me out. Boo Ya.
Phases 6 - Somewhat normalized around 6th grade. Medium length. Middle part. I cannot get all of my hair to go to one side a la Jaime Winkelman and that is the trend. Looking back, I am pretty grateful for this.
Phase 7 - Middle School. I am deep into the awkward stage, my hair is only part of a larger problem.
Phase 8 - Puberty fucked with my hair. It was always undecidedly wavy - unlike the perfect curly hair bestowed on my mother and sister - but now it is FRIZZY as well. Phase 8 lasts for pretty much all of high school. And my way of combating frizzy hair - in addition to unwittingly contributing to the school tuitions for the children of Frizz-Ease stockholders - is to wear my hair up in a ponytail. Everyday. And this isn't a loose ponytail with cute layers coming out of it. This is a tight ponytail made of anger and jealousy. I want straight hair badly. I sometimes have my Mom blow my hair straight for me but I have thick hair, so this takes at least 45 minutes. My Mom tells me my hair would look better down, but I don't listen. My sister tells me that my ponytails are too tight and that I'm going to enlarge my forehead. I don't listen.
Phase 9 - College. For no explicable reason, I suddenly heed the words of wisdom and wear my hair down, everyday. No more ponytails for I am trying to repair the damage. My hair is less frizzy, I'm not sure why that is, but I know not to question it. Plus, perhaps as a byproduct of tackling the oeuvre of Philip Roth, I begin to embrace my thick, wavy hair. I have Jewish hair. And I'm proud of it.
Phase 10 - Post-college. My boss says to me out of nowhere one day that my hair is not living up to its potential. Don't worry, this isn't inappropriate, at least not in the realm of say...my boss bringing her pitbull to work everyday and it throwing up near my desk on a consistent basis. She offers to pay for me to have my hair cut by a style master who cuts the hair of many of our clients. I'm curious, and it's free, so I consent. I meet my boss and, let's call him Fabian, in the basement of a brownstone in the West Village. Some of the necessary materials are missing, like towels or that little robe, so for the next hour and change I am drenched in thousands of snippets of my own hair. Since that moment, I have been obsessed with lint brushes and making sure there are no errant hairs on me. Fabian cuts and chops and regales me with stories of his B-list clientele. Directly from the haircut, I go and meet my family in SOHO. When I approach, I see my Mom gasp and my sister exclaims, "you look like a rock star" while wincing. There is not much evidence saved from this phase, a few photographs perhaps, unfortunately the ID badge photo for my current job was taken before it grew out completely, but I can sum it up briefly. I had many spiky ONE INCH chunks of hair sticking up and out, there were tons of uneven layers, and if one couldn't see my hair's potential beforehand, now it had run away and was hiding in fear.
Phase 11 - This is the now. Not too long, not too short. Occasional highlights. I rarely straighten my hair these days and only blow dry it during the winter to ward off catching influenza on my walk to work. LG-recommended products help the cause. My hair is still profoundly effected by weather, and always/annoyingly looks the best like 9 hours after my shower, but after an arduous 24-year struggle, I think my hair is doing considerably well. At least most of the time. Sometimes, however, it is both Veronica Lake & Meatball-esque.
(1) To those of you who have contacted me wondering why I haven't posted in the past couple days, I discovered something that I guess I should tell you. Apparently at this place I come to everyday, they expect me to do some work. Obnoxious, huh?
(2) To those of you who have requested not to be mentioned or quoted, I'll do my best not to use proper names if I think it's embarrassing or offensive, okay?
Blog Time:
So the other day, I was talking to this person, I'll call her...Mom and as I attempted to fix my hair in the mirror, she provided an astounding and amazing 30-second sound bite that I knew immediately had to be shared. I don't remember it verbatim but it went something like this: in those 30-seconds she compared my hairstyle to that of Veronica Lake. And then before I could even respond, she compared my hair to a meatball.
For those of you who cannot immediately visualize - my hair is wavy, it's in a side part, and I guess at that moment, there was a piece of my hair hanging in front of my face. You can see the striking resemblance between me and Veronica Lake here. Also, please note where the link is from - something called "prison potpourri" - it was the first picture to come up on Google Images. Shady.
Anyways, I brushed the hair out of my face and wondered if I should take the Veronica Lake comparison as a compliment. She said it with disdain, but who am I to be upset by a comparison to Veronica Lake. I've had far worse. Like the time I walked onto a bus and this guy yelled out "Hey, it's Blossom!"
As I was absorbing this comment and playing out scenes from Sullivan's Travels in my head, my Mom finished the one-two observation punch by saying that, because I was playing with it too much, my hair was turning into a dense meatball. Because I'm often forced into sous-chef duties at the country house, I knew what she was so sweetly and nimbly trying to convey. For those of you who need further explanation - during the preparation of spaghetti & meatballs, my mom always reminds me that if you play with meatballs too much, they lose their air and fluffiness and become heavy and dense. So, in fact, she was merely pointing out something I myself was responsible for. As I stubbornly played with my hair some more, trying desperately to reverse the meatball effect, I pointed out that I thought my hair was actually looking good these days. After a pause of reflection, my Mom agreed. Here's why.
Phase 1 - Birth. I was born with jet black hair, and a lot of it. I was adorable. People mistook me for being Asian. Which means I was cuter than you Whities out there. Although, it didn't help my cause a couple years later, when I was trying to prove to my sister that I wasn't adopted.
Phase 2 - Ringlet curls. Who doesn't love those on a toddler?
Phase 3 - Hold up, why did someone cut off my ringlet curls? My hair is so short that at 4 years old, I successfully passed as a boy so I could go swimming with my Dad at his sports club. Everyone called me "Stu."
Phase 4 - Perhaps as a rebellion to Phase 3, I continue to let my hair grow, unabated, until it is very long and I wear it almost everyday in two long braids. There is often a Mets hat atop these braids. This is thru 4th grade.
Phase 5 - Hold up, why did someone cut off my braids? Seriously, I went in for a trim and the dude chopped off the braids in their entirety. They hit the floor with a thump. My hair is back to short, like right below my ears. Not quite cute - especially because even though I've abandoned the Mets hat, I'm now wearing one of many baseball hats - but it didn't stop Zach Kurtin from asking me out. Boo Ya.
Phases 6 - Somewhat normalized around 6th grade. Medium length. Middle part. I cannot get all of my hair to go to one side a la Jaime Winkelman and that is the trend. Looking back, I am pretty grateful for this.
Phase 7 - Middle School. I am deep into the awkward stage, my hair is only part of a larger problem.
Phase 8 - Puberty fucked with my hair. It was always undecidedly wavy - unlike the perfect curly hair bestowed on my mother and sister - but now it is FRIZZY as well. Phase 8 lasts for pretty much all of high school. And my way of combating frizzy hair - in addition to unwittingly contributing to the school tuitions for the children of Frizz-Ease stockholders - is to wear my hair up in a ponytail. Everyday. And this isn't a loose ponytail with cute layers coming out of it. This is a tight ponytail made of anger and jealousy. I want straight hair badly. I sometimes have my Mom blow my hair straight for me but I have thick hair, so this takes at least 45 minutes. My Mom tells me my hair would look better down, but I don't listen. My sister tells me that my ponytails are too tight and that I'm going to enlarge my forehead. I don't listen.
Phase 9 - College. For no explicable reason, I suddenly heed the words of wisdom and wear my hair down, everyday. No more ponytails for I am trying to repair the damage. My hair is less frizzy, I'm not sure why that is, but I know not to question it. Plus, perhaps as a byproduct of tackling the oeuvre of Philip Roth, I begin to embrace my thick, wavy hair. I have Jewish hair. And I'm proud of it.
Phase 10 - Post-college. My boss says to me out of nowhere one day that my hair is not living up to its potential. Don't worry, this isn't inappropriate, at least not in the realm of say...my boss bringing her pitbull to work everyday and it throwing up near my desk on a consistent basis. She offers to pay for me to have my hair cut by a style master who cuts the hair of many of our clients. I'm curious, and it's free, so I consent. I meet my boss and, let's call him Fabian, in the basement of a brownstone in the West Village. Some of the necessary materials are missing, like towels or that little robe, so for the next hour and change I am drenched in thousands of snippets of my own hair. Since that moment, I have been obsessed with lint brushes and making sure there are no errant hairs on me. Fabian cuts and chops and regales me with stories of his B-list clientele. Directly from the haircut, I go and meet my family in SOHO. When I approach, I see my Mom gasp and my sister exclaims, "you look like a rock star" while wincing. There is not much evidence saved from this phase, a few photographs perhaps, unfortunately the ID badge photo for my current job was taken before it grew out completely, but I can sum it up briefly. I had many spiky ONE INCH chunks of hair sticking up and out, there were tons of uneven layers, and if one couldn't see my hair's potential beforehand, now it had run away and was hiding in fear.
Phase 11 - This is the now. Not too long, not too short. Occasional highlights. I rarely straighten my hair these days and only blow dry it during the winter to ward off catching influenza on my walk to work. LG-recommended products help the cause. My hair is still profoundly effected by weather, and always/annoyingly looks the best like 9 hours after my shower, but after an arduous 24-year struggle, I think my hair is doing considerably well. At least most of the time. Sometimes, however, it is both Veronica Lake & Meatball-esque.
posted by Susan Goldberg at 11:36 AM
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