Haircut

In 1985, I was in the fifth grade. This was the era of “Will you be my girlfriend/boyfriend? Check yes or no” notes being passed during recess. I wasn’t particularly interested in giving or receiving those notes—confusion reigned. Anna Herbert regularly got those notes from Jarrod Bosh. She also got breakup notes too. It really made no sense to me.

My teacher, Mrs. Fowler, had a tall, blonde daughter, Darby, who was a year older than me. She would stop by her mother’s classroom at the end of the school day, and her presence absolutely fizzed up my confusion. Maybe if she had passed me one of those notes, I might have been interested. She did make me feel a certain way each time she walked into the classroom. I’ve had a thing for tall blondes since then.

At the time, I had waist-length, chlorine-damaged hair from endless swim team practices that I desperately wanted to cut off. My mom told me that if I could find a picture of the haircut I wanted, we could talk about making it happen. This was long before the interwebs and Google. So, I began my quest: flipping through every magazine in every doctor’s and orthodontist’s office I visited. Nothing. Not one hairstyle jumped out at me.

That is, until I remembered the other stash of magazines in our house—the ones my dad kept hidden under the washing machine, right next to the toilet in the “big” bathroom of our tiny single-wide trailer. My father kept a certain type of reading material there that I often perused. And that’s where I found her. The perfect hairstyle. The perfect photo. Tracy Vaccaro.

There was just one problem.

I couldn’t exactly drag that magazine out from its hiding place, flip it open to Tracy’s glossy locks, and plop it down on the kitchen table in front of my mom like, “This one. I want this one.” Even I, a fifth grader, knew that would not go over well.

So I turned to my best friend Zak. I think Zak understood that my fascination with the magazines under the washing machine, next to the toilet in the “big” bathroom in our tiny single wide-trailer had a lot more interest for me than just the latest hairstyles. He never judged me though. He just helped formulate a plan.

We held a series of covert discussions during recess about my dilemma. Zak first suggested finding another picture of Tracy somewhere else. Great idea—except it was 1985, again no Google. And I definitely wasn’t about to ask the librarian, Mrs. Gifford (also Steve Gifford’s mom, who hung out with my parents at swim meets), if she could help me find pictures of Tracy Vaccaro, the Playboy model. That just didn’t seem like a winning strategy. Mrs. Gifford once told my mom that I needed to mind my swim suit and keep it from getting stuck between my cheeks. Rumor was that the same magazines my father kept under the washing machine, next to the toilet in the “big” bathroom in our tiny single wide-trailer were kept in the basement of the library. Mrs. Gifford seemed more like a warden than a librarian though. That definitely was not an option.

Zak’s next suggestion was to cut the page out and tell my mom it came from one of his magazines. But we quickly realized that would lead to my mom calling Zak’s mom, which could only end in disaster. Zak’s mom was sweet but terrifying—like a cheery drill sergeant with a perm. No thanks.

Then Zak came up with the real plan: make a photocopy of the picture, cut out Tracy’s head, and just show that to my mom. Looking back, maybe not the most brilliant scheme—but it was what we had. It really was a horrible plan but the thought of short hair verses the brittle, green tinged, rat nest I had on my head made me blind to logic.

We couldn’t use the copier at the library (again, Mrs. Gifford), and the public copier at Safeway jammed after eating five dimes. No way we were asking for help. The manager at Safeway was Big Frank Perri, he lived at the end of the block, he surely would’ve had a discussion with my father about the pictures we were copying. That left only one option: sneak into the school office and use the big copier.

Risky business.

Mrs. Huntington had an eagle eye, and Principal Doss had already spanked two kids that week. But we were desperate. I agreed to the plan, with one small adjustment: rather than take the entire page, I cut a 2-by-2-inch square around Tracy’s head and gave it to Zak for copying. That way, I wouldn’t have to return a full page to the magazine—I could just act like I’d never seen it if anyone noticed it missing. Also, carrying around a full page from a magazine that my father kept under the washing machine, next to the toilet in the “big” bathroom of our tiny single-wide trailer had added risk.

Still, I worried. What if my dad found the gap in the magazine? I’d be doomed. So I formed a backup plan: if caught, I’d play dumb and blame it on my younger brother. After all, who would accuse a fifth-grade girl of flipping through those kinds of magazines? Especially the ones stashed under the washing machine, next to the toilet, in the “big” bathroom in our tiny single-wide trailer. Playboy? What’s that?

So, on a Tuesday morning, I slipped Zak the picture at morning recess. Three minutes after roll call, Zak asked to use the bathroom and exited the classroom. I held my breath. He was gone a long time. My heartbeat increased tenfold and I was sure it could be seen pounding in my chest.

When he finally returned, he was red-faced and being escorted by Mrs. Huntington. She whispered something to Mrs. Fowler while Zak silently gathered his books. He ended up with detention for three days.

Turns out, instead of sneaking into the office to use the copier like we had planned, Zak just asked Mrs. Huntington to make the copy for him—after all, it was “just a picture of a woman’s head.” She agreed. She even took the clipping to the copier herself.

What Zak and I hadn’t noticed—and what Mrs. Huntington did—was the image on the back side of the page. She saw it as she placed it on the glass of the copier. I’m not exactly sure what body part was on the flip side of that 2- by-2 square but it was enough to foul up the whole thing.

Zak didn’t explain, didn’t tattle, didn’t even flinch. He took the detention, walked it off, and never told a soul why he had that picture in the first place. That, right there, is friendship in its purest fifth-grade form.

As for me? I didn’t get that haircut until the last day of sixth grade. I eventually settled for a Jane Fonda shag cut from a Ladies’ Home Journal I found at the dentist’s office. Not quite Tracy Vaccaro, but close enough.