Several months ago, I received a phone message from my sister. I opened the message and there was Trish's face, framed with the shortest haircut I had ever seen on her. She had gone to a new hairdresser: they had discussed the kind of style desired and Trish had even shown her pictures of what she wanted. Then she sat in the chair and watched, horrified, as the hungry mouth of the scissors marched around one ear, leaving a naked auricle. Rather than cry over spilled hair, Trish laughed and said that the "selfie" was actually taken two weeks after the haircut! Of course the right thing for me to do was to tell her honestly that such a short cut only accentuated her beautiful face (which it did). Over the years, she and I have had many long, hairy conversations about this protein on our heads. Our strict Mennonite upbringing has rendered us late bloomers on the hairstyling scene. Rather than curl up and dye (okay, there were a few perms and pigment adjustments), we have faced this brave new world, drawing strength from each other as only middle aged, bonded Broads can do. However, my lack of early exposure to clipping and coifing has not affected my real area of expertise: Mennonite Hair.
Now as with any religious organization, there are many flavors of Mennonite; the conservative church of my childhood is my source of experiential knowledge. Strict Mennonites have a myriad of rules about life, including well defined, specific standards for personal appearance. Modesty and being distinctive from society were two reasons given by the church leaders for these guidelines. I was always bewildered by the double standard present for males and females; shouldn't we be equally distinctive? Guys could pass for clean cut American men, while Mennonite girls only wore handmade dresses. The amount of detailed regulation would make your head spin. Imagine a thick book titled, "The Mennonite Cape Dress", not to be confused with summers frocks worn on Martha's Vineyard. Chapter one started with fabric selection: only solid, patternless colors (but material with tiny polka dots called "dotted swiss" was acceptable), adequate fabric weight and thickness, not too much sheen, etc. Chapter two would tackle the basic structure of the dress: waisted, high neckline, long skirt, sleeves past the elbows, and an extra piece of fabric over the bodice called a "cape". The cape's function was to mask Mennonite mammaries.
But I digress; back to hair. My church formed their rules about female hair from a literal interpretation of the biblical passage of I Corinthians 11, where Paul addresses issues of cultural appropriateness in roles of worship and in life. The crowning distinction of a Mennonite Maiden was her flowing, uncut hair. Not that you would ever see the thick tresses; they were wound up with a circular motion into a bun, held in place by hairpins made of steel, and tucked under a white, box-like cap, called a "covering". Female hair was never to come in contact with scissors: no trimming, no wispy bangs to offset a high forehead, and no thinning, even if you were genetically endowed with thick, horsetail hair (my own personal dilemma). However long your hair grew, that was the length preordained for it to be. Mine never made it past waist length, although it made up in volume what it lacked in length. I knew a girl whose hair reached to the back of her knees! Fortunately, she wasn't very tall, but even of 5 foot 2 inches, that is LONG hair!
I am told by my siblings that my early years were crowned by a head full of curls. My sister, Sharon, who was like a second mother to me, remembers wrapping strands of my curls around her fingers to create ringlets. Those were the glory years, when one's mane objective was to be cute and garner as much attention as possible.
As a child, I mostly wore my hair in braids, created by either my mother or older sisters. I was a tomboy and was much happier out climbing trees (yes, in my Mennonite dress), than concerning myself with preening and hair hygiene. Mastering the art of slipping through the cracks and going unnoticed is a survival skill the youngest of any large litter quickly acquires. Sometimes I could stretch the time between hair washings to several weeks, until someone finally noticed: "what is that sour smell?" On that sad day of reckoning, I would be marched to the bathroom, usually by my mom or an older sister and with my thick hair swirling around in a sink of hot water, my scalp would be scrubbed clean, usually twice just for good measure. I guess this was before the days of Johnson's "No More Tangles No More Tears" hair conditioner. My hair would be rinsed with a glass of vinegar, diluted with hot water. Remembering how that burned my freshly scrubbed scalp makes me wince even now. I would hold a washcloth over my eyes, but without fail, some of the vinegar rinse would get into my eyes. Finally, with relief felt by all parties involved, my wet, dripping mop of hair was wound in a towel and turbaned on the top of my head.
You would think the match would be over by this point, but it was only time for Round II: the combing of the hair. Armed with both a brush and a comb, someone would face off against my thick locks and commence battling the tangles and "rats' nests", as they were affectionately called. Mostly the human won, amid great tears coursing down my seven year old cheeks. I left the ring with renewed determination to avoid the whole experience for as long as possible. I do remember though, in praise of that vinegar rinse, when the comb could triumphantly glide unobstructed through my tresses, it made a squeaky sound and my hair shone like King Midas had reached out a finger and touched my head.
As childhood was pushed aside by the turbulent winds of puberty, my braids morphed into the bun and covering of a maturing maiden. What I lacked was the skill needed to wind my thick tresses into a bun small enough to fit under my covering. Hating to be dependent of others, I practiced over and over, until my arms grew weary. I discovered that if I pulled the front part of my hair back into a large barrette, then tightly wound the rope-like structure, twisting as I wound, I could anchor the large hairpins into that barrette for maximum stability and minimum size. If the bun perched too high on my head, I would back up to a wall and press my head against it with all my might, trying to pancake the bun enough to fit under my cap. One of my sisters had a special name for my hairstyle on that day: "Knob Hill". To this day, I have an inch long scar on the center of my scalp where the barrette and the hairpins formed a daily alliance.
As with other matters of female appearance, my church had rules about hair. Of course the majority of the locks were hidden under the covering, but mercifully, we could loosen the front of the hair, the part that framed our faces, just a little. My sister, Trish, remembers that at one time, the rule was that the swoop of frontal hair could only cover the ear by 1/4 inch, particularly if you were a member of the church choir. Perhaps it was something about 4/4 timing, or not being able to hear as well, or the allure of the hair-covered auricle; I truthfully don't know the reason. Trish heard the story of one rebellious female's experience: she was informed she would have to stay home from chorus tour if she didn't get her fractions right. Her side swoops were 1/2 inch over her ears rather that the required quarter inch or less. I guess math teachers are right about the use of arithmetic in everyday life.
And about the caps; they were white, boxy, and made of a stiff, net-like material. They were held in place with two small straight pins, stuck into the fabric and then into your hair. In my church, we had to attach a thin, white ribbon from one ear corner to the other. The ribbon formed a loop that hung down the back of your neck. Now I assume the ribbon had a function, in the days before straight pins. I suspect it used to be split, rather than looped, and then tied under the chin to keep the cap in place. Modern sewing pins changed everything, but the ribbons remained. My church leaders said that a tiny, worldly covering would look ridiculous with strings hanging down, so to enforce large caps for all, ribbons remained in vogue.
When I was fifteen years old, I attended a large, Christian conference in Dallas, TX, with a busload of people from my church. One morning, as we were exiting our hotel for the conference center, I forgot something in my room. I dashed back to the elevator and pressed the UP button. Knowing how conscientious I was as a teenager, I'm sure I was retrieving a second notebook to fill at the conference. A nice looking family got on with me. As we began to ascend, I could feel their curious eyes on me and knew a question was on its way. One of them politely asked about the purpose of the ribbon on the back of my white cap. Of course I knew the correct answer, but in that moment, my mind went blank and all I could think was to parrot the reason our church leaders gave us: "if you remove the strings, the coverings get smaller". You would have thought we were in Vegas, waiting for a disappearing act in a magic show. All eight eyes widened and stared at my covering. Flushed and flustered, I pushed the button for the next floor and made a quick exit. I'm betting that family still reminisces at Christmas gatherings about the Mennonite girl in Dallas with magical powers.
Unless they could afford the luxury of a hair dryer, females had to carefully time hair washing. Actually it wasn't the washing, but the drying that was the issue. That volume of hair could take hours to dry. You could tempt fate and wash it at night and go to bed with it wet, but you never knew what sort of unmanageable life it would take on while you were asleep. With a hair dryer beyond our reach, my sister, Linda and I keenly felt our lack of control. One Saturday, as we were doing the weekly house cleaning, we made a discovery: if you disconnected the hose of the Electrolux vacuum cleaner, and attached it at the opposite end of the canister, it blew air out with the same velocity that it had sucked up the dirt from the carpet. Bingo - we had ourselves a hairdryer! Chances are good if you dropped in on a late Saturday afternoon, you would find us out on our back deck, blowing dry our hair with the Electrolux sweeper. This method had the added benefit of keeping the inside of the sweeper hose pristine clean and fee of debris; perhaps the same could not have been said about our hair.
After I graduated from my church's high school, I worked for several years as a bank teller. I started off in a neighboring city where Mennonite sightings were less common. If you walked around in my hometown of Hartville, normal folk just viewed you as another horse in the pasture. But in Alliance, you were viewed more as a zebra, as an oddity. One crisp, autumnal day in October, I left the bank on my lunch break and went shoe shopping. After years of developing the sixth sense that people were trying to observe you without being noticed, I felt eyes on me. As I turned, a well dressed man asked me if Halloween had come early that year. Ouch. Another time I was working the drive-up window and as I processed the customer's transaction, I felt his eyes on my head. As I sent his receipt out the drawer, he mocked loudly over the speaker: "maybe your cap is like the hairnets worn by McDonald's employees, only yours keeps your hair out of the money." He laughed at his own cleverness and drove off. I was left with burning ears.
When Larry and I started dating, we appeared as homogenous as any other two conservative Mennonite kids. However, don't judge a book by its cover. There was an unseen cauldron simmering in both of us. There were dreams of freedom, huge educational aspirations, and hopes for grace. When I look back on those years, what amazes me is how similar our internal worlds were: we were two blocks patterned from the same quilt. Our faith was paramount. We wanted to honor Jesus and the change He had made in our hearts; that was never in question. We loved our families and in no way wanted to be disrespectful. But we longed for freedom to live our lives away from the stifling church rules. And our hunger for more education was palpable. The difficulty was that any movement away from Mennonite was viewed as a step on the journey away from God. I never understood how grace could be extended to non-Menno Christians: "they just haven't been enlightened yet to the whole of Scripture." And yet, those who chose to leave the church, or even move to a less strict Mennonite church, were quoted James 4:17: "Therefore, to him who knows to do good and does not do it, to him it is sin." How is that for control?! Larry and I knew early in our lives that we would be leaving the fold (although never The Fold); we would change slowly and respectfully, we decided.
Back to hair. I dreamed of wearing a flowing, white veil when I was a bride. Instead, I wore a boxy, white, covering, same as any other day. There was a "blink moment" just before I walked down the aisle. My bridesmaids and I were waiting in the church vestibule for the music to start (think a cappella octet voices). Humor is often my default mode when I am nervous. There was a black Amish bonnet (an outer cap, perhaps left by an Amish relative attending our wedding) on the shelf. I slipped it on and rolled my eyes and we girls giggled nervously. Looking back, it was my final farewell to cape dresses and boxy coverings.
We spent two glorious weeks honeymooning in New England. There were many firsts. I let my hair down, literally, out in public, although I did wear a short, black veil on my head. I traded my cape dresses for skirts and blouses and modest, store-bought dresses that I just "happened" to have in my suitcase. I set foot in a movie theater for the first time. "On Golden Pond" was featured with the father/daughter duo of Henry and Jane Fonda. I remember it being quite intense. We cheered on the Cleveland Indians at Fenway Stadium in Boston. And we hiked a mountain together; we trekked up Mt. Washington in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. We saw many historical sites as well. We were so excited about our new life together!
The next few years found us living our dreams of medical school for him, and a bachelor's degree in nursing for me. Living away from our Mennonite subculture gave us external freedom, but it was a process to figure out our identity apart from the conditioning of our childhood. I wore my hair long, although by now, I had a few wispy bangs and had cut about six inches off the overall length. I remember standing in utter confusion before the cosmetic display at K Mart. I wanted to wear something to enhance my facial features like normal girls did, but I had no idea where to start. To this day, I have never quite figured out the makeup mystique. All of my makeup still fits into an airplane approved ziplock baggie. I think I just missed that train and there's no catching up; I feel lucky to have naturally dark skin and eyes and I will just keep my ziplock baggie, thank you very much.
On the journey out of the Conservative Mennonite subculture, female hair is the Wild West, the Final Frontier. As long as you can still pull it back under some semblance of a covering,you might be frowned upon, but you are still in the corral. How many of us, as we drove the last few miles to home, shimmied out of pants and into a skirt, and wound our increasingly shortened tresses up into a small nest, working to keep the short strands from escaping, and pinned on a veil? And true to my church's warnings, once we dropped the ribbons, how the coverings shrank and morphed! The final product before extinction was often a lacy, alluring, cookie-sized round of fabric.
At the age of twenty-four, I finally bit the bullet. I went to a beauty salon and got an actual layered haircut. My head felt light and strange; when I passed a mirror, it would take a split second to register that it was me! I had absolutely no idea how to style this new "do". I bought a set of hot curlers and fumbled along for a year. And then somehow, I ended up with a series of perms on my naturally full-bodied hair. Think poodle and very tight curls, which I would try to tame with a curling iron. I felt my own ineptness, like I was years behind other women my age; wait, I guess I was!
We were new in Chattanooga when my hairy godmother appeared. With an infant and a toddler in a double stroller and an active four year old in tow, I braved the mall and was a "walk in" with no appointment at Regis Hair Salon. And that was where I met Judy. She was new in town as well and soon moved to her own salon. Nineteen years later, she is still working her magic on my tresses. Judy is the ultimate Hair Whisperer. She knows hair types and understands what your particular strands naturally want to do and what will take a lot of effort and coaxing to style. She is a genius with color, high lights, low lights (no, that's not a dimmer switch. It has been an education!), and covering grey. After all, don't we just want to look natural like this is the hair we were born with?! Besides her knowledge and skill with scissors, Judy is also quite candid with her opinions, a most desirable quality in a hairdresser. Given the void in my early years of coifing knowledge, I want a straight shooter and not an ear tickler to help me with matters of style.
With Judy's expertise, I have found my best hair: cropped and sporty, with a dash of sass. Fifteen minutes from shower to styled, with help from a few choice products scrunched into the wet hair, and a round brush and hairdryer (yes, the Electrolux has been replaced). I love being outdoors and active and when I sweat, the ends of my hair curl up naturally. Last year I tried letting my hair grow; long tresses can have a luscious quality and I thought I would take my middle aged self in that direction. After seven months, I realized that I had already spent enough of my lifetime caring for long hair and happily relinquished my locks for lightness and ease. Sporty and cropped, with a bit of texturizing is who I am, and it feels good just to be me. And by the way, Trish, next time you are in town, we can schedule a hair consultation with Judy; my hairy godmother will work her magic on your post- Menno tresses. We still have a lot of catching up to do, don't we? Our hair is always a work in progress.