I notice things about hair. Whether it be the length of a grandpa's wicked comb-over, or the amount of blue dye in a grandma's fro, I am unnaturally perceptive. It is my blessing, and my curse. Because of my wonderful ability to read hair, I have noticed an interesting hair pattern among the women in Utah. I would now like to present the 9 stages of women's hair:
1. Baby Bald Eagle
This is a stage that, to be fair, is not most girls' fault. Indeed, one could say that because of the sheer lack of hair in this stage, that it is barely a stage at all. But it must be mentioned simply out of sheer ridiculousness. Indeed, it is the lack of the hair that causes the stage seven mother (see #7) to overreact. This overreaction consists of placing a Gargantuan-flower-headband™ on the innocent victim to remind everyone of the gender of said victim. I don't know what mafia-funded company is supplying moms with these headbands, but I have a contact named Vinnie who believes that most of them are produced by a company that sulks in the seedy underbelly of society. Under the guise of homemade craft production, they fuel the mom's supply of overly enormous flower headbands. Vinnie calls the company code-name: Etsy. Furthermore, I believe that this stage causes irreparable damage to the female infant's psyche, thus perpetuating each consecutive stage.
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| "Seriously?" "Yes! She looks so cute!" "No, she looks scarred for life." |
2. My Little Pony Girl
Again, this stage may have less to do with the girls themselves, and more to do with the mothers who are beyond saving imposing their demented wills upon their female children. Little girls from ages 2-4 have been known to prance. They revel in their new-found "hair-i-ness" and for them the only logical reaction is to prance. For some reason, prancing is usually accompanied by hushed, mindless singing to themselves. At this stage, most girls have no concept of "dirt-i-ness" and can usually be found playing with the boys in the dirt. The only difference being that the girls somehow manage to include glitter with their dirt. How they do this is still a mystery. Consequently, out of a utilitarian attitude and lack of time, emerges the mom's quick and neat solution: the pony tail. Unfortunately, this hair style lends itself to prancing mindlessly about so well, that the moms have unwittingly furthered the cycle, pushing their scarred little girls toward madness.
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| Yes, it's quiet time. |
3. "The Butch"
The breaking point comes usually before the girl's sixth birthday. As the availability of scissors increases above the girls' cognitive abilities, so rises the chance of having an "incident." It is a ruthless positive correlation. It looks something like this:
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| Copyright DJ Scheerer. All rights reserved. |
The incident is different for every girl, but after observing the patterns, several commonalities emerge. The first is the girls' desire to cut their hair. This desire emerges from one of two places: either out of a desire to be free from under the bondage of gum-and-glitter-caked hair, or from an apparent desire to become Boy George's hairstylist. Another commonality of this stage is the shared lack of guilt that the girls have for chopping a large chunk of hair from the front of their heads. The only explanation that I can think of is that the girls have not yet developed the "I look hideous" reflex. The effects of this reflex can most easily be observed whenever a girl gets her hair cut later in life. I don't think I've ever met a girl who has been content after visiting the salon. I believe this happens because girls have lingering scars from their butch moment. Deep down, they still feel as if they could cut their hair better than anyone else, and when someone else cuts it, they flashback to their personal "butch" moment and begin berate the stylist. (It has become a personal hobby of mine to ask the stylists who cut my hair about women's post-shear freak-outs.) Sometimes, again this stage is not directly the girls' fault. Sometimes they force their mothers hand into cutting their hair into a freakish mess by sticking copious amounts of Dubble Bubble in an all too conspicuous spot. Sometimes the mom has no other choice but to use the nuclear option, the all-dreaded Perm. I would now like to invite any girl readers to submit pictures of their personal butch moment to me so that I may further my research. And laugh my butt off. Probably not in that order.
[Keep Following. Part two is coming soon to an internet near you.]
