Now We are Six

On January 9, 2005, six years ago, I started a blog called Joyful Woman. My writing coach had suggested blogging as a way of keeping my writing skills limber, and after reading a bit of her blog, I launched forth. It has been an enriching experience, one that has acquainted me with many friends. Some of those friends have eventually ambled off into the vapors of the internet, and others who have stayed. As I ponder those who have stayed, especially those like Jayne and AC and Ruth and Ansku and Becky and KGmom who often comment (comments being the food of my blogging, as I've mentioned before), I am grateful for the joy of regular readers. Nobody pays you to come by, and I appreciate the interest and friendship. We come to know one another quite well over time.

I also have regular readers who don't comment, and I have to say that I'm very, very curious about you. I go look at my StatCounter tracking, and there you are: Aberdeen, South Dakota; Plains, Montana; Walsall and Wolverhampton and Dudley, U.K.; and Woodbridge, Virginia. I wonder who you are and what brings you here.  Whether you say hello or not, you're welcome.

Today, as I celebrate six years of blogging, I'll repost my very first blog post in honor of my sixth birthday. I'm amused that I chose to break blogging ground by writing about hair. It's symptomatic of my writing style; I write about whatever is new or interesting in my thoughts at the moment, and at that moment I had just gotten a spikier haircut. So here you go, with a few photos added of hairstyles mentioned:

The look that sparked that first post

There ought to be a law requiring the reading of "Miranda Rights for Hair" by anyone touching your hair either at home or at the salon. 

I considered myself a rather conservative woman until I began thinking today about the parade of hairstyles and colors across my life. I've now decided that I'm a rather daring and adventuresome soul, perhaps could even be described as a bit intriguing and somewhat dangerous! 

I was born a redhead. The red hair fell out and, after a period of baby baldness, it came in platinum blond. It gradually darkened over the years, reached "dirty blond" in young adulthood, then turned a surprising mix of grey-peppered dark brown beneath years of blond weaves and streaking. 

And that's just the saga of the color. 

My first style was "koonky-koonk." No one else equaled my creative name for the fountain-like ponytail on top of my little blond head. Then came the China Chop, the Long-and-Stringy, the Curly Bushy, the time I had it straightened in 8th grade (lasting one day in the tropical humidity), the time I permed it into a Formidable 'Fro at the age of seventeen, the Upside-down-pear through young adulthood, the Grow-it-long-&-french-braid-it experiment of my thirties, and then back to the conservative Pear. 

Now we're in the Spikey Era, thanks to Maile at the Beehive salon and spa. 

Considering my saga, I should be viewed as admirably even-tempered about dealing with change. Especially even-tempered if you compare me with my friend Julie, who used to single-handedly support Kleenex corporation by bursting into tears after each haircut. 

If we had a Miranda Rights for Hair, it might go something like this: "You have the right to remain the same color and style. Anything you allow to be done to your hair can and will be used against you sometime in the future by your kids, your siblings, your spouse, your friends and likely even by you yourself. So there." 

And with that, Maile would brandish her expert scissors, and we'd be off at a brisk clip into the delightful unknown.