One of my favorite movies is the 1954 version of Sabrina. It’s a beautiful romance only enhanced by crisp black-and-white film and the charm of Audrey Hepburn. Her character, the fledgling Sabrina Fairchild, leaves Long Island to study cooking in Paris and comes back a glamorous woman. But what always bothered me about the movie is what signals the transition: Sabrina cuts off her flowing pony tail. (For the movie buffs, Audrey’s character does the same thing in Roman Holiday). I mean come on! As a high-schooler, I used to groan at the television as the short-haired, sophisticated Sabrina slowly appeared on screen. That’s the only difference?
I wouldn’t realize until I hit college that a haircut really can be life changing.
Before I hit college, the last haircut I had been subjected to was in second grade. I remember it clearly. Tears rolled down my face for the better part of a half hour as my relentless stylist yanked my hair with various combs and burned my neck with the curling iron. After that, I swore off cutting my hair, and for good reason: the pain wasn’t even worth it. Looking back at pictures of my as a little girl, my hair was always atrocious: rounded bobs and long bangs adorned my circular face and what little forehead I had. I must have never felt pretty, because judging by my pictures, I never was. I decided to keep my scraggly long hair au naturel, thank you very much.
Then, at the age of 18, I moved from the rural Midwest to Boston to go to college and I felt myself transforming from country mouse to city mouse. Just like in all of the fairy tale-esque movies I never believed in, a fashionista took me under her wing and changed my life. She sat behind me in one of my classes and we ended up working together on a lot of projects. One day she looked lovingly at my long hair and mock turtleneck and said, “You have a lot of potential. Let me help you.” We tore up H&M and Anthropologie. The only thing left was my hair. “A bob,” she insisted. “You would look so ’20s hot!” I never did quite get what she ordered. Read More »
Every year, I make New Year’s resolutions: “Get in shape,” “be more outgoing” and “don’t get arrested for drugging the neighbors’ neurotic Schnauzer.” And every year, they fall apart. I can never begin with plan and arrive at completion – I’m always stuck in a constant cycle of process, sort of like running on a treadmill, except that running on a treadmill sounds like one of those resolutions I won’t be able to stick to. So let’s say it’s like being stuck in a vat of macaroni and cheese. Yum!
So this year, I’m making a New Year’s resolution to complete my entire list of New Year’s resolutions. And this means that I’ll either have to drastically improve my self-control, dedication and work ethic – not on the list – or I’ll have to drastically lower my expectations. Resolution #0 is to avoid anything that sounds like work, so here goes: the list of resolutions I know I can pull off.
Resolution #1: Stand around inside a gym regularly
I can’t understand why people think this one’s so hard – going to the gym, I’ve discovered, is easy; as long as I don’t hit a deer on the way, I can get there about nine out of ten attempts. And I’ve developed plenty of useful exercises to fill out an hour-long cardio workout: pressing buttons on the treadmill, switching my iPod playlist, going to the water fountain and estimating how many of me would fit in that guy’s biceps. I’ve planned a pretty good mat routine, too, but I don’t think I’ll be able to handle either the push-up or the modified (“girl”) push-up. Instead, I’ve developed the “modified girl push-up,” which is where I watch girls do push-ups. Read More »
Boy cuts are all the rage…at least for Scientologists. First Katie Holmes chopped her locks and then Posh Spice followed suit. The new ‘do is rather hard to pull off, but both of these ladies are looking mighty glam with the drastic cut.
On my list of all-time most annoying things in the entire world, having long hair ranks right up there with people who purposely screech their fingernails on chalkboards and drivers who cut you off and then give you the finger.
I don’t mind long hair on other people (especially guys, ‘cuz that’s hot). I mind long hair on me. My hair is so unimaginably thick that any significant length just makes it fall flat and stick to my skull. I once tried to get a perm, but my hair was flat again within an hour. How screwed up is that?
Plus, I’m a low-maintenance kind of girl, and I just don’t have the patience for long hair. It takes forever to shampoo and condition, and brushing it in the morning takes 30 seconds that I could really spend doing something else (sadly, I’m serious).
So since about the age of 12, I’ve never had hair longer than shoulder-length. Too much work! I’ve known about Locks of Love for a while, but I just figured I’d never have hair long enough to be able to donate.
Locks of Love, for those of you not familiar with it, is a charity organization that uses hair donations to fashion cool hairpieces for children who are bald or losing their hair for a variety of medical reasons. It’s a great cause, and the kids really appreciate the hairpieces.
Unfortunately, you have to chop off at least 10 full inches of hair to donate. You can have layered hair with 10 inches being the length of the longest layer, but still, that’s a lot of hair.
I was never really attached to my hair until I spent three years growing it out and discovered how amazing long hair can be. It’s versatile, insulating, attention-getting, and the perfect thing to hide behind when I want to take a quick nap in class.But, long hair demands a ton attention, guzzles shampoo and somehow becomes a receptacle for meals. The other week I almost had it when my eight inch ponytail got caught in a subway door. When your hair becomes hazardous to your health, it’s time to consider a cut.
Yesterday, I went and got my first (professional) haircut in six years. Yeah, no more dorm-room cuts from Celeste the hippie-hairdresser for me! I ponied up thirty bucks for this “trim,” and to my dismay, I ended up looking not like my old self — sans split ends, but resemling a local news anchorwoman. It’s pretty bad. My new, sculpted coif doesn’t exactly represent my personality and most definitely doesn’t go with my threadbare – and – holes themed wardrobe. Read More »
I’m not sure we need any more signs that Tom Cruise is officially off his rocker, but when I read this little tidbit, I had to pass it on. I don’t want to hate on Scientologists, but… alien souls in my being? Really? Tom Cruise going from hot fighter pilot to crazy tabloid staple? Something is certainly wrong here. And why, oh why give the crazy bug to baby Suri? This girl is going to have enough issues to begin with….
Turns out little baby Suri already has a weekly hair appointment. Now, maybe I’m just jealous since I can’t do this and have horrible roots down to my ears, but—she can’t have that much hair! I think it’s a toupee. Even stranger, says the tipster, is the fact that she is always naked and no one is allowed to speak in her presence.
Holy crazy people, Batman!
Read full story (and other interesting celeb goss) here.
One of my favorite movies is the 1954 version of Sabrina. It’s a beautiful romance only enhanced by crisp black-and-white film and the charm of Audrey Hepburn. Her character, the fledgling Sabrina Fairchild, leaves Long Island to study cooking in Paris and comes back a glamorous woman. But what always bothered me about the movie is what signals the transition: Sabrina cuts off her flowing pony tail. (For the movie buffs, Audrey’s character does the same thing in Roman Holiday). I mean come on! As a high-schooler, I used to groan at the television as the short-haired, sophisticated Sabrina slowly appeared on screen. That’s the only difference?
Every year, I make New Year’s resolutions: “Get in shape,” “be more outgoing” and “don’t get arrested for drugging the neighbors’ neurotic Schnauzer.” And every year, they fall apart. I can never begin with plan and arrive at completion – I’m always stuck in a constant cycle of process, sort of like running on a treadmill, except that running on a treadmill sounds like one of those resolutions I won’t be able to stick to. So let’s say it’s like being stuck in a vat of macaroni and cheese. Yum!
I’m not sure we need any more signs that 
