I Froggy, Take thee Freaders...

So this is my 200th post.

For the past few weeks as I've trepidatiously watched this milestone approach, I've found myself wondering... what on earth will I talk about? I mean, damn, 200... that's a pretty big number. It's like my own, personal bicentennial. I should really put some thought into this...

And now the moment has arrived... and you know what?

I want to blog about my hair.

Yes, my hair.

You see, I went to a wedding tonight. A lovely wedding, with a lovely bride and groom, and hands-down the best entrance-music EVER during any wedding ceremony I have ever attended. (And yes, Jess, I did come away with one suggestion for you!)

But enough about the happy couple. This is all about me. Hey, it's my blog, I can be self-centered if I wanna...

You see, I have always loved the styles of the 1920s, and have always always always wanted to learn how to do finger waves. My hair is currently at an awkward length that I can't cut because of short film project and the whole continuity issue, but there's really not much I can do with it in terms of dressing it up. Yet I realized that, given the couple, and the couple's friends, if ever there was an event to rock out Flapper-Style, this was it.

So I did a test run on Thursday and discovered that really... with some patience and enough of the proper styling product, it really wasn't all that difficult.

And so, in true 1920s fashion, I started my hair around noon today, for an evening event. I let it set for about 4 hours, then combed it, bobby-pinned it, hairsprayed the living daylights out of it, and off I went.

First of all, I find it interesting that styling oneself like a socialite from 1924 causes one to be hit on by men older than one's father... only instead of the usual "oooh sexy, you lookin' fine..." I was receiving compliments such as "you look lovely" and "you look very nice." Sure, the complimenters were grey, or bald, and older than my father, but still... a girl could get used to this.

But the crowning glory of the evening came after I danced my ass off to everything from Brian Adams to Gloria Estefan to Rancid... and my hair did. not. fucking. budge.

Seriously, by the time I and the centerpiece the mother of the bride gave to me had trekked home to Brooklyn in a taxi, my hair still looked as flawless as it had when I left the house--nary a single frizz in sight.

That, my friends, is fucking magic.

And magic, of course, was meant to be shared...

The Front:




The Left:




The Right:




The only question that now remains is... do I wash out this obscene amount of product (ostensibly enough to kill a small village) tonight? Or do I wait until morning to see how well the hair has held up?

Decisions, decisions...