Tuesday, April 20, 2010




: dishevel, rumple

TOUSLE is a word I am used to in its adjective form—TOUSLED. I associate it almost exclusively with my mother's many fashion/beauty magazines that I read as a child while sitting on the toilet. Sometimes with the seat down. There were stacks of these magazines in both of our bathrooms, so this reading venue was convenient and ideally peaceful.

Obviously, TOUSLED would appear in some article about hairstyles or "looks." These articles would often have four options to choose from, something like: shiny and sleek, tousled, bombshell curls, and dangerous waves (keep in mind that tousled, curled and waved are ENTIRELY different concepts). TOUSLED eventually became the modern "bedhead" or "the messy look." This, I love—the "I want it to look like I did nothing even though I actually did a lot and probably could have done nothing for the same effect" look. Classic.

I don't really know where I want the blog to go from here. It's like a choose your own adventure book (I totally want to write one of these, by the way). I could talk about how women care too much about their hair, I could talk about my mother's unusual consistency with fashion subscriptions, or I could talk about the ways in which these magazines train women to both care about their hair and want to subscribe to their magazines. Actually, I think I may have said it all in this paragraph. I'm not sure I want to get any more involved on this particular morning.

I will leave you with this: I once spent close to forty minutes in front of a mirror in my mother's dining room hairspraying my bangs into the perfect shape. I was eleven and on my way to a carnival, of all places. I honestly felt like if I didn't get it right somebody would: a) notice, b) care, and c) not like me because of it. It sort of devastates me thinking some grown women still feel this way about their hair.

Or grown men—I shouldn't generalize.

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