I’m about to start high school and am in a bit of an “awkward” stage… trying to figure out what I like – how I want to look and what I want to wear.  These are the early-90s and 90210 was my show… but naturally that led me to Melrose Place too.  And to Josie Bissett.  She was incredible: so bold, confident, unapologetic.  And she had this super cute, stylish short haircut that was stop-you-in-your-tracks stunning.  She was the kind of woman who got noticed and commanded respect.  And I wanted that.

I was growing up in a small, rural town in Wisconsin and struggling through the Middle School years: trying to keep up with the faster girls (I was a “late bloomer”).  I was trying to balance my mom’s priorities: like the strict ballet career I’d invested 8ish years into; with my own priorities: being free on Friday nights for the Junior High dances.

I had some type of odd bronchial tick for a couple years there, which caused me to launch into a bark-like cough when I started laughing hard enough.  And there were a few months where I was left outside the friend circle as a result – wondering why kids cared so much about how I laughed, and what I could do to earn back their favour and get back into the circle.

I had grown up with a Dance Mom and part of the family mantra was to “sparkle.”  This concept – of “sparkle” was something my mom had picked up from a biography about Shirley Temple.  It essentially refers to the idea of turning on that charm, that charisma, anytime you go out into the world.  And she would remind my younger sister & I of this.  Often.

So, whether because of that internal voice reminding me to “sparkle” or my performance-oriented extra-curriculars, I was always very focused on what others thought of me.  What they saw in me… whether they liked me…  I sometimes felt this sense of watching myself from above.  My mom was also a Paul Simon fan and we’d listen to old cassette tapes in the car.  I felt a profound sense of connection to American Tune:
And I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying

That idea of watching yourself from above was something I felt like I did, even when I was still firmly planted in a classroom or a car or hanging out with friends.

Partially because of the expectations of wearing a tight, sleek bun as a ballet dancer, I was basically forbidden from cutting my straight, limp, blond hair throughout my childhood.  There was one incident, where – in a moment of rebellion and insanity, while my mom happened to be out of town – I put my hair into a high ponytail and cut it off.  I mean – not all the way off – but a solid 6” or so.  This idea had come to be from another friend with a more ethnic, coarse style of hair.  Apparently, her mother used to do this “all the time” when she was young.  I even tested out this technique on a Barbie doll before taking the scissors to my own head.

Needless to say, it was a disaster.  So much so, that my father – a very quiet, calm man, immediately drove me to his barber on main street.  Al, the barber, was not much help and I went home feeling slightly liberated… but also terrified of how my mother would react the next morning when she saw me.

Well, it wasn’t great – but it wasn’t totally miserable either, partially because my mom’s first glimpse of my home haircut was when she showed up for a junior high program and realized my ponytail was dramatically shorter than it should be.  But she was in public and so, like me – she had to “sparkle.”  I had kept my hair in a ponytail, as the lovely layers my friend had lured me with had, in fact, not turned out as expected.  Well, after that incident, my mom took me to her stylist who attempted to blend in the layers and salvage the cut in some way.  But I got the message: never try to cut your own hair.

I had this one friend who had the guts to have her hair cut short.  She was tall and funny and one of the most confident people I knew.  Self-doubt or teenage judgement seemed to roll right off her like raindrops on the waterproof ponchos we wore during the class trip to the amusement park.  Jess was just straight-up fun to be with – and life seemed to be easy for her.  When she went from a more traditional 90s teen girl haircut to this stunning, short, pixie-like style, I realized… I needed to do this.  I mean, Jess had brown, sort of mousy hair.  If she could pull it off, I’m sure I could too – with my sparkling, sun-bleached summer hair!  That image of Josie Bissett from Melrose Place was all I could see.  I would become her!  And who knows, maybe it would even help people see me as that confident leader I so longed to be.

So, here we were… about a month before High School was ready to begin.  I walk into the stylist with photos printed out of Josie.  By this point my prior mini rebellions were clearly starting to break down my mom and she had allowed me to sunset my serious ballet career in favor of a more relaxed dance studio and thus, the need for a sleek bun was no longer as critical, and so my mom was even on board.  She was 100% supportive of my goal to transform into Josie Bissett – or at least to chase her confident, short hairstyle.

The stylist gave me the cut.  Or at least to the best of her ability.  Let’s just say, there weren’t a lot of young, modern women asking for cuts like this in New Holstein, Wisconsin, and her experience with such a style was likely limited, at best.  

It. Was. Terrible.  I looked like I had a bowl cut and had just escaped from a juvenile detention center or somewhere that short, awful hairstyles were forced on people.  It was way too thick and chunky and frankly too short, even for that intended style.  I tried to go back once (to that same stylist) and get it “fixed” but there was no fixing this one… it was done.  I cried.  I did not feel confident and cool and in command – I felt silly and embarrassed.

My friends were honest – the hair cut sucked.  But they didn’t seem to love me any less.  I did get a lot of looks and second glances those first few weeks of school, but I like to think that awful haircut helped me avoid some artificial friendships… Let’s face it – nobody was seeking me out for my looks in that first year or 2 of high school while I recovered from my bad haircut and grew it out – leaving my dreams of Josie and pixie-cuts in the past.  But those people who I did connect with – both new and old friends, those who loved me and accepted me: bad haircut and bronchial laughter and all… they were golden.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson, and didn’t make any other terrible hair choices… but that would be false.  But I did learn that no haircut would change me.  Confidence had to be built and had much less to do with appearance – and much more to do with what I learned and who I surrounded myself with.  I built confidence as I learned to accept my own insecurities, as I learned to see my vulnerability as a superpower and as I became more focused on connecting with my own passions and those who shared them.  And my relationship with hair – it’s come a long way too.