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Aug. 31st, 2010
rarely take pleasure in combing out my hair. Oftentimes my head-shaving impulse comes at such a time, wincing with twinges or not. So I was trying to think when I have enjoyed "doing" my hair.
A few years before The Madwoman in the Attic came out, and maybe 20 years before I heard about it, for a party of my high school English class at which we were supposed to dress as characters in books we'd read, I chose Bertha (the madwoman in the attic). I was late, as my hair styling was a massive teasing of my locks into a crazy matted mess, and it took longer than I'd allotted for it; I made an entrance, in the most disappearingly gender-neutral crazy clothes I could find, with my arms up like a monster, growling. After I startled 'em all, somebody had me go back out to the hall and do it again for a picture.
I was old enough to know how hard it was going to be to undo that hairdo, teased to high heaven like that. Nonetheless I was very into it.
I recall that the picture also shows I decided to doff my glasses for the part, at least at first, for surely crazed Bertha didn't have glasses. Or they'd long since have been broken.
In addition to anticipation of audience reaction, the zeal with which I put on that part must have reflected an awareness of just how perfect a choice, for me, that locked-away crazy woman was.
A few years before The Madwoman in the Attic came out, and maybe 20 years before I heard about it, for a party of my high school English class at which we were supposed to dress as characters in books we'd read, I chose Bertha (the madwoman in the attic). I was late, as my hair styling was a massive teasing of my locks into a crazy matted mess, and it took longer than I'd allotted for it; I made an entrance, in the most disappearingly gender-neutral crazy clothes I could find, with my arms up like a monster, growling. After I startled 'em all, somebody had me go back out to the hall and do it again for a picture.
I was old enough to know how hard it was going to be to undo that hairdo, teased to high heaven like that. Nonetheless I was very into it.
I recall that the picture also shows I decided to doff my glasses for the part, at least at first, for surely crazed Bertha didn't have glasses. Or they'd long since have been broken.
In addition to anticipation of audience reaction, the zeal with which I put on that part must have reflected an awareness of just how perfect a choice, for me, that locked-away crazy woman was.
rarely take pleasure in combing out my hair. Oftentimes my head-shaving impulse comes at such a time, wincing with twinges or not. So I was trying to think when I have enjoyed "doing" my hair.
A few years before The Madwoman in the Attic came out, and maybe 20 years before I heard about it, for a party of my high school English class at which we were supposed to dress as characters in books we'd read, I chose Bertha (the madwoman in the attic). I was late, as my hair styling was a massive teasing of my locks into a crazy matted mess, and it took longer than I'd allotted for it; I made an entrance, in the most disappearingly gender-neutral crazy clothes I could find, with my arms up like a monster, growling. After I startled 'em all, somebody had me go back out to the hall and do it again for a picture.
I was old enough to know how hard it was going to be to undo that hairdo, teased to high heaven like that. Nonetheless I was very into it.
I recall that the picture also shows I decided to doff my glasses for the part, at least at first, for surely crazed Bertha didn't have glasses. Or they'd long since have been broken.
In addition to anticipation of audience reaction, the zeal with which I put on that part must have reflected an awareness of just how perfect a choice, for me, that locked-away crazy woman was.
A few years before The Madwoman in the Attic came out, and maybe 20 years before I heard about it, for a party of my high school English class at which we were supposed to dress as characters in books we'd read, I chose Bertha (the madwoman in the attic). I was late, as my hair styling was a massive teasing of my locks into a crazy matted mess, and it took longer than I'd allotted for it; I made an entrance, in the most disappearingly gender-neutral crazy clothes I could find, with my arms up like a monster, growling. After I startled 'em all, somebody had me go back out to the hall and do it again for a picture.
I was old enough to know how hard it was going to be to undo that hairdo, teased to high heaven like that. Nonetheless I was very into it.
I recall that the picture also shows I decided to doff my glasses for the part, at least at first, for surely crazed Bertha didn't have glasses. Or they'd long since have been broken.
In addition to anticipation of audience reaction, the zeal with which I put on that part must have reflected an awareness of just how perfect a choice, for me, that locked-away crazy woman was.