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Author: admin, 19.03.2015
Antique Brass earrings dangle from gold filled ear wires; Antique Copper earrings from sterling silver. The fashion trends of the eighties portrayed the freedom of expression which nominally characterized this decade. Through creative experimentation, music video, motion picture and television icons redefined style. With all of the adults sporting the latest fashion trends, it's no wonder the children of the eighties began their own sequence of fashion statements. No one likes to see pictures of themselves from the eighties, but we were all in it together.
Banana clips - those bear trap-like contraptions that caught a girl's hair up in a wild, yet carefully constructed mop running the length of her head. Mesh hair ties - girls tied a piece of black or white mesh in their hair to give them the "Madonna" look. Crimping - basically, placing hair in a miniature waffle iron so it could look like it had been braided for a week. Big hair - poofing and teasing the hair, especially the bangs, with anything that would hold it in place during high winds.
Slogan T-shirts with your favorite sports team, New Wave band, Spuds Mackenzie, Fido Dido or college. The Miami Vice Look - a simple, pastel jacket with narrow lapels worn over a solid-colored t-shirt. Izod shirts - in every color of the rainbow, these shirts were to be worn with the collars turned up and, for maximum preppie impact, hang a sweater over your shoulders.
Parachute pants - the loudest piece of clothing in your closet because people could hear you coming a mile away with the pant legs rubbing together and the zippers clanking. Sweatpants - either tucked into tube socks or pulled up to your knees for a sort of "bermuda" sweatpant look.
Jeans - must have been made by Bonjour, Sasson, Chic, Calvin Klein, Gloria Vanderbilt, or Guess and had to either be ripped, have zippers all over them or at the bottom, and definitely must be stone washed or pinstriped. Spandex pants - worn alone or with shorts over them, these came in a wide variety of colors.
Stirrup pants - worn as either comfort clothing or a dress-up outfit, these were very colorful and sometimes ribbed.
Pricey sneakers - Reeboks, Vans & Airwalks (for the skaters), PUMA, British Knight, Converse, L.A. Lots of makeup - blue eye shadow, blood-red lipstick, roll-on lip gloss, and thick mascara in black, purple, blue or green.
Sunglasses - Either Ray Bans, sleek sunglasses like the ones worn by Tom Cruise in the 1983 movie "Risky Business," or Oakleys. Bracelets - usually plastic and worn hundreds at a time or white, braided sailor bracelets. Sasha, my 13-year-old daughter, had been diligent about swabbing the new piercing twice a day, but the air is full of germs, and somehow one of them had crept inside.
The doctor was not Sasha’s regular pediatrician, but a warm and competent partner in the cozy suburban practice.
Suddenly, we had a new problem, far more inflamed and resistant than the pinkly painful earlobe. You could write off the incident as a moment’s thoughtlessness, one of those times when the ancestral brain overrides all rational filters.
And the day before that, in the moments immediately following Sasha’s bat mitzvah, during which she had chanted words of Torah and spoken eloquently of “everyday miracles,” my mother’s boss offered similar caution. My daughter loves a good gel manicure and likes to fringe her ice-blue eyes with dark mascara.
So when people suggest we keep Sasha under lock and key, they’re grossly underestimating her strength, ingenuity and pluck. It would be laughable, except that it’s a short walk from those deep-seated beliefs to cultures where daughters are forbidden to read and wives are forbidden to drive, where girls suffer painful genital mutilation because their sexual pleasure is so suspect and their virginity so prized.
Yes, the world of social and sexual interaction is rife with risk (chlamydia, pregnancy, almost-guaranteed heartbreak), but it’s not my job, as a parent, to police Sasha’s journey.

I rake my fingers through my short, damp hair, fluffing it with a dab of green gel—the bargain brand, $3.99 with my Acme supercard—to keep my curls standing at shiny attention for the next fifteen hours. My mother is paying Barry Leonard $25—a lot, at the time—to be one more adult telling me what I should or shouldn’t do, insisting that today’s stinging regret will, eventually, morph to gratitude. I stopped trying to straighten my hair at 16, around the time Josh and I began making out on the black leather couch in his father’s study.
My mother, when she sees me a month later, will think I have done this because I’m a lesbian; short hair goes with the ripped jeans, second piercing in the left ear and requisite copy of Sinister Wisdom on the bookshelf. Yes, that was me in Barry Leonard’s salon chair, crackling with want, cringing in self-mortification.
Of course, adoption does not cause stretch marks or visible scars, but my heart has been changed by adoption. As my son grew and I corralled my postpartum anxiety into something more diluted but still potent, I had to learn how to let him fall and learn on his own without my constant intervention. I received the issue of Brain Child today.  I've read it from front to back and enjoyed it just as much as I thought I would!
I have been reading and loving the magazine since my first child was born, almost twelve years ago. Finally … a magazine for moms who have more on their minds than what kind of sippy cup to buy.
It is like fire, burning bright red and radiant, shooting sparks down his spine and behind his eyes. Earrings coordinate with our antique finish En ZigZag Necklace and En ZigZag Cuff for a complete set. Young girls sported neon colors, friendship pins, and silk vests while the boys wanted parachute pants, mesh muscle shirts and a Michael Jackson glove. However, guys could opt for a single earring in the left ear if they were straight and in the right ear if they were gay. Now the ear throbbed scarlet, and a lymph node had swollen just behind it, an unforgiving pea beneath the satiny skin of her neck. She wiggled the earring from its hotbed of infection, while my stoic daughter held back tears and my partner winced in empathetic pain. I wish I’d told my cousin, the one who recommended we arm ourselves to preserve our daughter’s innocence, “Yeah, we’ll put that shotgun on the shopping list, along with a chastity belt and a windowless tower.” And oh, for the presence of mind to lob the good doctor a snappy rejoinder: “Lock her up on weekends? At three weeks, she flipped herself from tummy to back with a torque of her tiny legs and an exertion of sheer will. Late on the night of her bat mitzvah, I found Sasha doing push-ups, barefoot in her silver party dress, on the carpet outside the synagogue’s social hall.
She’s growing up in a progressive pocket of Philadelphia in 2014, a century and place teeming with strong, funny, competent women and men who call themselves feminists. And she advised her granddaughters, in salty Yiddish, that if a guy got fresh, they should “varfn im inem yam un pishn arayn zayn oyer.” Throw him in the ocean and pee in his ear. She writes about family health, the arts, and spiritual life and community for The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Sasha continues to brush her own tupelo-honey tresses, like some Victorian heroine, 100 daily strokes in pursuit of radiance and contentment.
I’m wearing the khaki-colored sack I favored in those days to hide my body’s bulges—overalls cut loosely through the thighs and hips, cinched at each shoulder with a strap poked through a buttonhole and then double-knotted. I am not going back to Barry Leonard, Crimper, circa 1975, where Barry himself, rayon shirt unbuttoned nearly to his copper belt buckle, stands behind my chair, comb in one hand and mournful look in his limpid brown eyes. I’d like to say it happened in this order: I threw away the giant rollers, unplugged the blow dryer and, with a joyful, newly liberated spirit, attracted my first real boyfriend.
I live in Oregon, I kiss girls—including the one who will become my life partner—and, one impulsive afternoon, I ask Mary Newcomer at the 37th Street Salon to cut my hair short. Sasha wants contact lenses and high-heeled sandals and permission to wear pink lipstick out of the house. You’re messing up my hair,” she hisses before we’re finished—and I know, in the end, we can do only what my mother did—fade toward the wall, witnesses as Sasha finds her way. I poke earrings through my lobes, shrug a silver bracelet onto my wrist, grab socks from the basket in the corner.

He often wears a long-sleeved white shirt with an upturned collar, blue or brown pants, and dark shoes.
And both sexes indulged in what was possibly the most memorable fashion disaster of the decade: pegged pants. Just a few days earlier, my cousin had said, nodding in Sasha’s direction: “She’s gorgeous. Some nights, between face-washing and tooth-brushing, she hangs upside-down on the pull-up bar that is bolted into the bedroom doorway, her fleece pajama shirt bunched to reveal abs hard as cedar. Why, then, these retro words from the mouths of people—including a female pediatrician, for heaven’s sake—who certainly should know better? Then I reach around her—it’s small, this bathroom—to the shelf where Elissa and I keep the tools of our pragmatic grooming routines: mint dental floss, paraben-free deodorant, contact lens solution, a tweezer to tug the occasional wayward hair from one another’s chins. I am 13 and I want straight hair like Cher, like Karen Carpenter, like Lise Abbott, the tallest and most stunning girl in my class. But I think it was really the other way around: Josh gave me a stuffed koala bear, wrote cards in barely legible print saying I was pretty, and his sheepish affections buoyed my confidence enough to stop fighting my natural instincts—or, at least, the natural instincts of my hair. Me, staggering through freshman year on a diet of coffee and Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies. She wants to look like the girls in the Justice clothing catalogue, willow-legged and flirty in their flounced skirts.
Sasha continues brushing her hair, alternately beaming and scowling at herself in the mirror, trying unsuccessfully to tame the wild, electric strands. And it enrages me when acquaintances, colleagues and strangers in the food co-op see only one aspect of her gorgeous complexity, then feel entitled to say something Medieval about it. It looks like a long-haired animal, in shedding season, has draped itself miserably over my head. Josh managed to blaze a path through the tangle; his tongue found my earlobe, and he held my curls when we kissed. That was me, at war with my hair, with myself, until—gradually, finally, blessedly—I grew up and made peace. Thongs marketed to pre-teens!—maybe the sequestered adolescent or the shotgun-wielding papa is an appealing trope. I can see myself in the infinite mirrors, endless tunnel of shaggy-haired Anndees, all of them lock-jawed with impatience.
We give in on lip gloss, stand firm on the strappy heels, promise contacts when she turns 13. Parents (fathers, especially) must guard their daughters’ sexuality by any means necessary. It’s my obligation to share every story I know about girls and women—stories from mythology and Torah and history, stories to critique and stories to admire. Women in hot pants serve Chardonnay and brie to waiting customers; a white shag carpet hugs the walls.
I’m going to let mine grow, down to here, and then get it layered…Will you make me a ponytail? True ones, too, from Elissa’s life and mine, about times we said yes and times we said no and with whom and what happened next and how it all felt.
What I see in the mirror as wavy skeins fall from Mary’s shears is this: a woman who no longer needs to hide in a khaki sack or a helmet of hair.
The blow dryer roars, and he pulls a hank of my hair taut with the wire brush, lashing it over and under, over and under, with electric heat.
And each Friday night, we lay our palms on her silken head and whisper: “Hayei asher ti-yih, vehayi b’rucha, b’asher ti-yih.

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