Then at a rehearsal, the director told me I was also going to be jumping around like a toad while singing, "Toads, toads, all of your people are toads!"
"Sounds like fun," I said enthusiastically.
"Actually, I'm just kidding."
I guessed the word was out that I was willing to do just about anything on stage.
Besides practicing my hysterical stage-straddling and toad-jumping, I had been growing out my hair since last summer. I typically wear my hair in an earlobe or chin-length bob, so for me, growing my hair past my shoulders was almost like growing an additional limb.
"What is this on my neck?" I would ask myself, shaking my head back and forth, only to discover flowing, chestnut tresses cascading in waves across my shoulders and down my back.
(This imagery is not exactly accurate. Picture flipped-out ends and a few short, wiry gray hairs sticking straight up off the top of my scalp. This is my hair when it is long. Most of the time, I end up banishing it to ponytail land. These are the moments I envy the very bald role of the King.)
The point is, I started growing out my hair last summer when I first heard about auditions for the show. I figured if I didn't get the part, I would treat myself to a cute haircut in order to prevent myself from wallowing in self-pity.
But I got the part. And I'm not complaining.
In fact, some of my friends seem to like my long hair.
"I notice you haven't cut your hair," an acquaintance observed in January. "Does that mean you got the part? That's awesome. And your hair looks good too."
"How long have you been growing it out? " a third grade teacher asked me.
"Since the summer."
"It's getting long," she said. "Do you just command your hair to grow?"
"I think I like your long hair best," another teacher said.
I must have made a face because she added, "But it's probably a pain, isn't it?"
My husband, Dan, loved my short hair. It was one of the reasons I married him. I was not going to grow out my hair for a man. (A theater production - yes. A man - never.) But he likes my long hair too. It gives him more "material" - you know - for his comedic alter ego.
The other day, he was running his fingers through my newly grown-out hair while I was trying to blog. He caught his fingers in one of the many tangles.
"Ow!" I said.
"Sorry."
Then, he did it again.
"Ow!"
"Sorry."
And again.
"Ow!"
"Sorry."
"Why do you keep doing that?" I asked him, slapping his hand away.
"It's kind of funny."
Of course, as is characteristic of everything I do, I couldn't possibly grow out my hair without being slightly neurotic about it. This particular neurosis probably stems from the late 80's and early 90's when my mother always made sure my hair was in the chronic, chemically-induced staple of this time period - the body perm.
"Your hair is too stringy without a perm, Becky," she would say. "It's just a body perm. It will add a nice, soft wave to your hair, not like the spiral perm you got last year."
I think "add a nice, soft wave" actually meant, "You will look like a poodle and smell like a chemistry lab," because that was always the outcome of my perm experiments. Hence, my hair neurosis.
For example, the other night I dreamed that I had accidentally cut my hair. I thought that the production was over, and then I realized it wasn't, and all of a sudden I had short hair, and I was worried I would lose my role. I woke up in a panic, drenched in sweat.
"How do you do 'accidentally' cut your hair?" Dan said after I told him about my dream. "Trip and fall on a pair of scissors? Oh, my hair's gone, ahh!"
Yes, Dan, that's exactly how it happens.
Now if I could only get down to my King and I weight. But that is a story for another time, another blog.
For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan
Check out more of my work in:
Rebecca, I loved your blog post! Thanks for bringing a little humor to my day. :)
ReplyDelete