My point is, I have no idea if the following is true, or a brain blend manipulated by "Three's Company," Capri Sun, Martika, and Vuarnet T-shirts.
There was a woman who had a son who played hockey with my brother. She had super long hair. Like, butt scarf long. She treated it like a fragile crown, whooshing it carefully to the side when she sat on the bleachers in the arena. It wasn't pretty long hair, treated to 100 strokes twice a day. Or the frame of a mermaid's face. It was just hair. Like a field of free-thinking strands mid-scatter. Nothing a little Hot Oil Help couldn't remedy, though.
I always thought of Crystal Gayle driving a clunker when I saw her.
Finally I asked my mom why this woman had such long hair. She told me this. (I think):
"Some women never change their look after they meet their husband. They don't want him to not like what they look like, and then leave them."
There are a few things that lead me to believe she actually said this. Most recently, it was when I told her that we needed a bigger counter top in the downstairs bathroom because maybe the sink isn't the best place for storing a flat iron.
This, she said, was another reason Chuck and I should get married. A flat iron in the sink is annoying, just the kind of thing that can be the last straw. A deal breaker. If we were married, he would be contractually bound to the fact that my flat iron lives in the sink in the downstairs bathroom. Quick. Sign here so your boyfriend can't flip shit over the dangers of electrocution.
Man. It must have been weird to grow up in the 1950s.