80s Big Hair and the Earrings that Ate New Jersey

Blazers with shoulder pads suitable for Pittsburgh Steelers defense...

Pencil skirts with waists that reached the upper clavicle region...

And a white patent leather pocketbook emblazoned with a cartoon barnyard print... (This is something which I know I did not buy myself, and which may have been a remnant of my one Miss Piggy Halloween, where for years thereafter, everyone felt inspired to gift me with random pig-centric items.)

Anyway, these were just a few of the things I found when cleaning out my basement boxes this last week. And it was tucked into the aforementioned example of Barnyard Couture, that I discovered my 1980s high school ID...

Given the width and height of my hair in the photo, it is truly a remarkable example of physics at work, that it actually fit in the purse.

Ah, I remember these days well, too... Where the outgrowth of half an inch of perm meant-- not that I could finally run a comb through my hair and let the squirrels return to the woods. But that it was...

Time for another perm.

My hair was fried better than the Colonel's extra crispy. But what it lacked in, say, softness, and health and, oh... shine... it totally had in diameter.

Which by 1980s standards was very, very cool.

Ah, look at the eyes, smudged with Wet n Wild's colored eyeliner, the best that $0.99 could buy! I spared no expense when it came to beauty.

Look at the smiling yet pained and sweat-misted expression. Because I probably had come straight from having to wrap my leg around my head in the Jane Fonda Workout portion of Phys Ed class. And there's nothing you want to do more after getting yourself in a pretzel position for 40 minutes than have your photo taken for posterity for ever and ever and ever.

It must also have been after lunch, as I completely bucked conventional portraiture traditions by posing with food in my teeth. That was my undaunted rebel nature at work.

(Also because there wasn't enough time between classes to ever really use the restroom.)

And last, I suppose you probably are wondering if I planned to address the elephant in the room-- or rather, the great satellite dishes dangling from my ears.

Yes, those are, in fact, earrings-- those items that look like what would happen if the Care Bear Cartel took over Dish Network.

Well, I am proud to say, I made those myself. Yes, those are official, 100% hand-crafted, hand-beaded, hand-melted-with-Mom's-iron-making-stink-enough-to-scare-the-smoke-detectors, original, 16-ounces-apiece, clip-on, earlobe-screaming tat.

All in rainbow colors, too-- as in the 80s, rainbows meant Joy and Magic and Trendy and, in some cases, Vibrant Overcompensation for Depression. And not, y'know, Diversity like it does today.

So when you get up in the morning, look in the mirror and think, "I have seen better days," just smile and remind yourself:

Your hair fits safely in your car.

Your earrings aren't a smart substitute for a free weight workout.

And the only rainbows you'll see hopefully will be streaking across the rain-spattered sky... and not on your knit sweater, shoelaces, and Trapper Keeper unicorn notebook. (Actually, okay, I still kinda think I might like the notebook.)

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So tell me, folks-- what past fashions do you look back and regret? :)

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Beauty and De-Nile

I pasted my head yesterday. And no, that's not some euphemism that would make your granny blush, or anything. I was trying to color my hair using henna for the first time, and I can only effectively describe the process to you as follows:

• You decide to bake cookies. So first you add the flour and sugar. Then you add the egg and butter. Then you stir and stir and stir.

• Then you go away and forget about the batter for about eight hours.

• But then, when you're confronted with the batter in the bowl the next morning, you think, "Ya know, I wasn't so excited about making cookies in the first place."

• So you mush it all through your hair.

• Top off your new look with a Saran Wrap turban, a dollop of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry!

That's pretty much what it was like.

Sundae toppings optional.

But we do strange things for beauty, don't we?-- among them pasting our heads. I mean, the efforts themselves look so ridiculous, it's a wonder we even bother. We rip out hair by the roots here but plant new ones there. We buff and peel and polish. And highlights-- we pull teeny strands of hair through a plastic cap so we look like some sort of dish scrubber.

This is fashion.

Still, the henna promises to keep my hair a non-mouse-brown while simultaneously not turning it the consistency of an overused Brillo pad. So it seems worth the effort. Plus, you know, ancient Egyptians supposedly used it to go glam for their big pyramid openings and barge-rides and stuff.

I mean, if Cleopatra could hang out on the boat, head covered in a neck-straining 10 pounds of paste and whatever ye olde Saran there was back then-- ("Use PapyrWrap-- seals extracted organs and keeps 'em fresh for the Afterlife!")-- I suppose I'm certainly not above it.

Anyway, it's not like I've got Mark Antony watching the whole thing and saying:

"Blechius, Cleo! Pro plurrimi decorus mulier en Egypt, vos certus es grotesqueus en solarius!"

(Translation: "Damn, Cleo! For the most beautiful woman in Egypt, you sure are ugly in the morning.")

Of course, Cleo would also have been likely to respond:


(Loosely translated: "Talk to the hand, you backside of a horse.")

I like to look on the bright side of these things.

So, folks, I've shared my hair-dough tale-- tell this noggin-paster-- what have you done for the sake of looks or fashion that you find yourself chuckling at?

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The Code of the Pajama

A chill in the air, dark, drizzling... The alarm went off and instantly I knew it'd be one of those mornings I'd wonder why I couldn't just stay in my pajamas all day.

Okay, yes, I still have work to go to.

But I found myself seriously examining just what the reaction might be, if I appeared in the office at my usual time, but instead wearing:

• Black velvety drawstring lounge pants
• A Jack Sparrow t-shirt
• Purple stripey bedsocks
• Slipper boots
• Fluffy bathrobe for "outerwear"

Also, hair sticking up in all directions and black framed cat's-eye glasses...

It's sexy high-glamor all the way for me, yessir! In fact, it's a wonder the runways of Milan, Paris, and central Bayone, NJ aren't all clamoring to replicate this particular edgy, offbeat, polyfibrous style.

"Bag-lady Chic," I call it. A little of everything and all mixed up. Like nothing the likes of Versace or Vera Wang have ever seen before!

And can you imagine an entire office of folks not bothering to get dressed for work? Cripes, there'd be flannel and sweats, satin and boxers, and promo t-shirts from tradeshows...

Not to mention a modicum of nudists.

And I didn't want to mention them mainly because, well, look around your office at your coworkers... yourself....

How many of us do you really want to see stylin' it au naturale?

And certainly not making copies, changing lightbulbs, or climbing under desks to set-up network connections.

Just sayin'. I imagine this is fairly universal.

Still, in the middle of a client crisis, or a really long conference call, a plushy bathrobe and bedsocks might be just the thing to soothe the soul.

Comfy workers are happy, productive workers. I think as long as we can come to some arrangement with the nudists, the Code of the Pajama might just improve morale.

And plus, I've got this awesome A Christmas Story "You'll Shoot Your Eye Out" nightshirt all ready for the office holiday party.

With some thermal leggings, a 40s Chinese red chenille bathrobe and some pink bunny slippers, why, I'm virtually guaranteed to be the life of the whole event!

So tell me-- what would be your new office attire? (Unless, you're one of the nudists. In which case, there is such a thing as sharing too much.)

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Jaromir Jagr and the Game Face

The Pittsburgh Penguins are doing well in the Stanley Cup finals, and finally beat the Rangers in the series this weekend. There, they'd faced former Penguins star and over-all moody bloke, Jaromir Jagr. I hadn't seen Jagr for a while (I'd always been a Ron Francis gal, myself), so when local news did an interview with Jags, I was a little surprised at the new look he was sporting.

I mean, I know the playoffs tend to set off some interesting superstions. Like eating 50 pounds of meat before a game.... Not washing a "lucky" pair of socks.... Chanting something in Czech forty thousand times...

But for Jagr, it seems he's exchanged his famous mullet for a decent haircut, and then added, er... this....


This facial... er... goatee-oriented...


Um.... Hitler mustache chin stripe combo... thing.


So okay, normally, I abstain from the kind of humor where someone is made fun of unmercifully. Someone who isn't, you know, me. Because that brand of humor is cheap and easy, and not cool really, and it's certainly not like I'm Ms. Perfect or anything...

I mean, in the 80s, my hair had its own zipcode.

But really-- Jagr... Jags... sweetie... what were ya thinking?


On the interview, I can't even tell you what he said. Why? Because I was too busy looking at this expression of hairy line art.

And as I'd just written a few weeks ago about what would happen if a presidential candidate tried to campaign with a Hitler mustache, Jagr's appearance just seemed timely.

So, I ask you, what do you think brought on this new look?

Did he think the Pens would just let him cruise through unscathed because he was channeling his inner dictator?

Did he think Sidney Crosby would back off because once Hitler shows up, the tanks are sure to follow?

And what about the "soul patch" with a little extra soul that extends beyond his chin like a tiny hairy diving board?

Why is it perfectly centered with the mustache?

Is it an example of goatee OCD?

Needless to say, I've been entirely useless during any sports interview that's come on featuring Mr. Jagr. I'm eating dinner and I stop in mid-bite, unable to look away. It's mesmerizing.

I admit to having a similar problem with toupees.

Anyway, I open it up to you all. Is this some totally cool look that I'm too much of a nerd to truly appreciate? Should I rush right out and find me a guy sporting this fine Hitler-Shaggy style while the getting is good?

Mr. Blackwell-- your opinion, please.

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You know, they laugh at Hitler moustaches over at Humor-blogs.