I came across these awful pictures of me at age 10 the other day. I was torn between burning them and keeping my awful little secret to myself and sharing them with the world to give everyone a good laugh at my expense.
I remember this hairdo. It was my first real hairdo -- the first one that I decided on myself and asked my mom to take me to the salon.
What's that? You want a closer look? Well, you asked for it.
We went to Fantastic Sams. I wanted feathered hair, like my friend Tamara's. We were and still are best friends. We had to get feathered hair at the same time (it was 1984, after all). In the end, hers looked much more "feathered." She pointed out that she didn't get a perm. I had gotten a perm. Doh! Thus, I looked like a 50-year-old woman in a fifth-grader's body. Tamara was always a step ahead of me (or a hundred steps) on the coolness scale because she had an older sister to learn from. I just had my mom, and she had this hair:
What's that? You want a closer look?
(This is a test to see if she reads my blog, in which case I may not be of this Earth much longer. So, just in case she sees this, I'd like to say that my mom has very nice hair now. Very stylish and pretty. She's the most beautiful lady.)