theoretically.

or: An Archival Look at Mistakes

My hair has changed in fairly significant ways over the past ten years.  What remained the same was the deep feeling that my hair was talking to the world, telling them exactly what kind of idiot I was on a daily basis.  Even if I didn’t consciously express it, I understood that maybe a hair style was a code for my interests and in a broader sense, my sub-culture(s). In short, holy shit getting a haircut is stressful.

That’s why I only do it every two years and then go home and sob into the mirror while gently combing my hair with a fork like Ariel.

SO, what follows is a pictorial essay of my hair and it’s underlying significance to my personal history from the ages of 18ish-28. Theoretically (lol) this method could be extrapolated to other people and thus I’m teaching lessons here.

17 yrs old: what the hell

Hey teenagers, here’s a free tip: DON’T USE SUN-IN. Ever. It will not make your hair look sun-kissed, it will make your hair look like you poured weak bleach on it and then ironed it for three days. You’re welcome. So I’m not sure why I was trying to be blond, but I distinctly remember vowing to never dye my hair darker than its natural colour. Hahaha joke’s on you teen-G. I mean, judging from this dress alone I had no idea what I was doing right?

Look, there are other pictures from high school, but you can just trust me when I say that they all look like that. Parted down the middle, dyed poorly, oblivious.

Uh, let’s just skip right over to early university. Let’s say, 2001, 18 years old.

brush your hair or you'll get NESTS

Longer, messier, not as stupidly orange. Progress.  Maybe not so much the cat shirt. But university is where we find ourselves right? Give me some time. I’m still figuring this shit out. I remember thinking my hair was kind of bad-ass and my shirt was funny because my website was… well, it had a cat-related name and man, was my blogging ever deeply ingrained in my sense of self at that point. If you didn’t read my blog you didn’t GET ME.

take off one accessory before you leave the house

Chin up, 18 Year Old Me. You’re more than your internet rants.

2002: year of the moneen shirt

It’s 2002 now, and I’ve obviously still not cut my hair. So stubbornly determined to look scraggly–how adorable. Shortly after this I hitch-hiked to Halifax for the first time, thus further progressing my style into dirt-bag traveler territory. I looked amazing. Oh also, I turned 19. Watch out!

so tough

This is August 2002, and this was, to me, a SERIOUS HAIR CUT. I was so proud. I had also just moved out of the apartment in Brown’s Court (!!!) I lived in for the summer. I successfully lived away from home without dying! I hitch-hiked without dying! I could do anything! So I… cut my hair. You go, champ. You’ll notice it’s still lame, though. My personal politics and sense of style have moved beyond my high-school hair at this point. Hurry up and get with it.

december 2002

Theeeere you go. A little bit of hair in the face never hurt anyone.

standing too close to PA without earplugs

2003: flesh made to suffer show at the house of rock. This is a terrible picture. 2003 was certainly the year of black dress shirts, black pants, and white belts. I finally dyed my hair dark and rocked the hell out of that shit. Hear that, 18 year old Sun-In girl? You had NO idea.

Stay tuned for the riveting part 2, in which I am often drunk.