When I was a little girl, once a month, I watched as my brother got a bowl haircut. I was super jealous. The third Thursday of every month, oftentimes between the Cosby show and Cheers, skipping a Different World respectively, my mother pulled out her size medium brown popcorn bowl and placed it on my brother’s head. Davy would sit there studiously as my mother happily snipped away. I would sit next to him seething with pure rage as our family dog Mitzi, a rescue Lhasa Apso crossed with a Dachshund, would fight for the chance to hump my leg.
“Little girls should have a billion strands of curly tendrils.” She would sing to me on the fourth Friday of the month when my own scalp was pulled and tweaked as she subjected my hair to an Ogilvie spiral perm. I cried inside, dreaming of a day with stick straight strands and non-girly flair. “Beauty must suffer,” my mother’s words would ring in my ears as bits of hair were being tightly wound around a permanent rod.
My brother learned of my bowl-cut jealousy one night while we ate cheez-whiz and leftover water crackers from my parent’s card party. We were in our freshly crafted forts, mine was intricate, featuring the use of old army blankets and camping gear to set a dark, earthy tone. Davy’s, on the other hand, was always lively with fresh-cut flowers and a pink glow, courtesy of the large organ shape that was the sole design of our older brother’s Operation Game sleeping bag. As we watched Friday Night videos, I told Davy of how I longed for bangs like the movie stars we saw on the Night Owl films, well after the videos were no longer on our minds. Davy didn’t say much, but looked at me knowingly, he seemed to instantly understand, I had a head for bangs, not curls.
The next morning, during an epic episode of Doctor Who—with Tom Baker of course—my brother cracked open his prized Cadbury chocolate orange he received from the previous Christmas, something he was saving for a special occasion. Slice by slice, Davy told me of his plan to debunk being the recipient of the following Thursday’s ceremonial bowl-cut. Once finished sharing his mission, Davy looked me stern in the eyes, handed me the last orange slice, and said, “Thursday, you will have bangs.”
Finally the anticipated day came, and, as planned, Davy wore our family Dee Snider wig, a leftover prop from my Dad’s “Before you kids were born” jam session days. After a whole day donning curls, and nearing the hour of the cut, Davy professed his love of long curly hair. My mother, always being one to please her son, as she often admitted she loved him the best anyway, granted him his wish to grow out his hair. However, needing an outlet for snipping, my mother turned to me and I happily replaced my brother’s head with my own. I sat there with a wide grin for the five whole minutes of the cut as I got the bangs I so desired; I didn’t even notice Mitzi humping my leg.
Years later, my brother got his gorgeous, natural curls and even works part time as a hair model in between his interior design projects. My hair is plan-jane, albeit with killer bangs, but I realized that special Friday night wasn’t about me. Davy was meant to be bold and beautiful and my expressed bowl-cut jealousy finally gave him the out he needed to be his true self and become the happy, flamboyant man that he is today.
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