Listen to Big Feels on Spotify, sweethearts. <3
Big Feels on Haircuts and Flaky Dough:
A coworker was talking about the bowl haircut from the 90s this week, “Why did we ever think that was a good idea?”
My brother had a bowl haircut for awhile and, honestly, it looked kinda good. He had thick black hair, he would part it down the middle, and half would hang down into his eyes. He was the oldest, followed by me and then two more sisters (more siblings pending, but we weren’t there yet). We did haircuts at home for awhile—big brother with a bowl cut and us three girls with bangs cut straight across—but there must have been a breaking point for him around age ten or so, because I remember going to the barber shop on Main Street with the candy cane spiral sign on the outside.
Big brother was the only one getting a haircut, but us three girls would sit and smile and smile, and the barber would slip us each a coin and tell us to run across the street to buy a pastry from the Danish Bake Shop.
This is how I remember it, though it does make me laugh to think that we came for a haircut and the barber would give us money in return. I must be telling the truth because even though my memory is very bad, I have never forgotten a flaky dough once I have tasted it—never.
Hmm, now I’m at the point in the story where I don’t know if I should follow the thread of flaky dough or haircuts.
Let’s try both (someone from the sidelines shouts: “WEIRD FLEX BUT OKAY.”)
The first bit of flaky dough I remember is the Superstore croissants. They don’t taste how they used to, but they’re still pretty good. We were staying at the Ronald McDonald House in Saskatoon because my baby brother was dying. I was six years old.
Actually, I’m realizing something as I’m writing this. I’ve been saying that my first accessible memory was in the hospital room with Colson, when he died, but that’s not true. I remember Ronald McDonald house. I remember seeing the box of croissants on the corner of the kitchen counter. I remember how the light hit it. I remember having a croissant and trying to figure out how to have another and another without anyone noticing. I remember the bliss of soft dough inside my belly.
I remember the dollhouse that was around the corner from the entryway, too. It was huge and painted with pastel colours. A mansion with rooms for every member of our Barbie family (at home I shared a bedroom with my two sisters).
I remember the TV room. I can’t quite remember which movies we watched there. I want to say Mary-Kate and Ashley, but I’m not really sure. I think maybe Hook.
I remember my auntie Sandra teaching me how to tie my shoes. I remember her talking about bunny ears. I remember her being very gentle and talking slow. I can’t remember if I knew how to do it after that, but I remember her telling me how.
And there is a picture of us three girls with bangs cut straight across sitting in descending order, naked in the bathtub. We are beaming, glowing. Our little brother was getting put back together by the doctors and we were eating croissants and playing with new Barbies and watching movies we were never allowed to watch at home.
It was three years later when I decided to grow out my bangs. It felt like a moral issue tantamount to using god’s name in vain. I remember my mom explaining to me that, in our family, we all have bangs because we were all born with big foreheads—WE JUST LOOK BETTER WITH BANGS!! I had not considered that a forehead could be too big, but it was too late, I had already decided that I would have no bangs just as soon as I could grow them long, come hell or high water. I had reached my breaking point like my brother before me, though, as with most things, I took matters into my own hands. There was no barber in sight. It would not be long until I became a protege of at-home haircuts and dye-jobs (hello, streaking kits!).
Come to think of it, I learned how to cut my hair around the same time that my grandma taught me how to make thin, flaky pie crust…I’m not sure if I can draw any meaning from that except to raise my fist victoriously and say HA! I DID IT. I TOLD A STORY ABOUT HAIRCUTS AND FLAKY DOUGH.
Fin.
Talk soon,
Natahna
The recommends: Go back to your roots; aka. write some poetry again. Your notes app is right there, goddamnit.
Loving this unique intersection of flaky dough and haircuts 🥐💇♀️