I’m way behind on blogging. Travel stuff on the way, and also part two of Poverty and the Doctrine of Shame. In the meantime, here is a silly break…a change of pace from the super-serious things I’ve been writing about lately.
As a child, I hated the color of my hair. It’s not fire-engine red, but reddish enough to where my hair was the source of endless teasing in a small town where my hair color was unusual. And given that I didn’t grow up near Dublin (the only place I’ve ever visited where I actually blended in), red hair wasn’t exactly common.
I also had a particularly vivid imagination throughout my childhood. Still do, in fact. At one point when I was feeling particularly self-conscious about my hair, I concocted a plan to rid myself of the redheaded curse. OK, so my original plan was to dye my hair black, but my mom vetoed my request. For some strange reason, she didn’t think that an 8-year old should go to such extremes, and her unconditional love for me made it impossible for her to understand why I hated my hair so much.
Then I came up with an even better plan. One that didn’t involve chemicals. (Or so I thought.) I’m not sure exactly how I came up with this idea, but I decided that I wanted to shave my head. But no, my vision wasn’t as simple as me walking around with no hair. I wanted to replace my hair with a whipped cream wig. For some reason, I seem to remember a book that included a picture of a man wearing a very full (and rather ridiculous-looking) shaving cream beard. My imagination ran with the concept….
The conversation went something like this.
Me: “I hate my hair. I want to shave it all off.”
Mom: “No, Cynthia, you can’t shave your head.”
Me: “Why not?”
Mom: “You’re not old enough to use a razor.”
Me: “You could do it.”
Mom: “I would have to shave it every few days, and we don’t have time for that.”
Me: “But I want to shave my head!!!!!”
Me: “I could wear a whipped cream wig.”
Me: “Instead of hair. I could have a wig. But made of whipped cream.”
Mom: “It would melt and run down your face.”
Me: “No, because I could eat it and carry Reddi-Whip with me to put more on.”
Mom: “Cynthia, we can’t afford Reddi-Whip. And we certainly can’t afford to buy a can a day.”
Me: “But it would be so much better than my hair.”
Mom: “If you think you get made fun of for your hair now, you would be picked on even more if you wore whipped cream on my head.”
Me: “Everyone likes whipped cream.”
Mom: “Not when it’s melting all over you in the hot Texas sun.”
Mom: “No. You’ll thank me for this when you’re older.”
In hindsight, I guess that I can indeed thank her for not allowing me to fulfill all my childhood fantasies. Because, yeah, I would have looked rather silly wearing a whipped-cream wig. Probably…
P.S. I made the mistake of doing a Google search for “whipped cream wig” in hopes of finding an image to include in this blog post. Now I wish that my mom could have had a little talk with Katy Perry before she made her “California Gurls” video. Yikes! For a more whimsical picture (but I’m not posting it on this page because I assume it’s copyrighted), try this one.