Bobbed

Every Winter, we hunker down for months of living in the dark while the world around us settles into its annual parade of decay. It is a long, cold walk beneath a frosty grey sky; weighed down by a claustrophobic cocoon of heavy, chafing clothing, propped up by salt-dirtied boots, there is little to do but wait for the warmth of better times. Weeks before the official arrival of Spring, perhaps heartened by a prematurely balmy day, we start sloughing off or burying the various vestiges of Winter-sweaters are folded and bagged, legs are slowly bared, and hairstyles change. Nothing ushers in the new post-doldrums season, for me, quite like a bob.

It is refreshing, liberating and, as the most modern of looks, eternally relevant. In F. Scott Fitzgerald's 1920 short story, "Bernice Bobs Her Hair", the heroine may have been duped into going under the barber's razor but she should not have been so worried: her hairstyle, lank as it may be, is iconic. Poor Bernice ushered in a decade that was to see the bob take over the world. At the start, it was scarcely-to-be-spoken of daring. By the time of Black Tuesday, everyone's Grandmother had given into the craze and bared her neck.

The bob, in all of its impressive variety, was worn by most silent movie stars. The otherwise antithetical Colleen Moore and Louise Brooks were both exemplars of the bob. Colleen's was a sportier, more approachable version than Louise's sleek, sexy take, yet they both owned the style. They remain very modern looking, even contemporary, girls because of that hair. It has stayed popular these last nine decades for a reason: it is as universally flattering as the little black dress or a great shade of red lipstick.

Every March/April, I am slowly overcome with the ever-increasing itch to lop off all of my hair. It is truly a seasonal thing. As soon as heat starts accompanying sunshine, I become obsessed with the idea of short hair. Sometimes, this works to my advantage. A year ago, I was growing my hair when the leaves turned green; as it had been a pixie the previous autumn, it was at a perfectly chic mid-chin level. This year, it is on the cusp of cascading past my shoulders. As I am aiming for Veronica Lake territory by December, it is crucial that I ignore the peer-pressure voice in my head that is advocating a good, old-fashioned whacking.

Although it is surely only a matter of time before I return to my favourite hairstyle, I have reached a compromise, one that I am hoping will allow me to keep an aesthetic detente going for at least a few more months: that Red Carpet darling, the faux-bob (also known as the did-she-or-didn't-she). Until I am psychically prepared to again take the plunge into bared neck-dom, I will fake it like so many others. When that day arrives, I will be able to say, like Bernice, "You see"--her words fell into an awkward pause--"I've done it."

Left to Right: Zelda Fitzgerald; Nancy Carroll; Colleen Moore.

Fever. Spring.

"It's Spring Fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want--oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"-Mark Twain

After a long, cold, numbing Winter, it is all too easy to prematurely jump into the heady concept of Spring. I know full well that we have not seen the last of frost, icy rain, or flurries. Yet, all it takes is a bit of sunshine to make me dizzy with the thought of the warmth and languor of the upcoming season. The evenings remain hot-chocolate worthy--my car is still tinged with a delicate layer of frost most mornings--but I cannot stop myself from dreaming of bright-green grass and fire-flies, sun-dresses and sandals. I suppose that it is only natural to want to shrug off the freezing, fat, short days of Winter at the first tiny sign of newness and freshness. Every store in the country is in cahoots with this feeling: bathing suits and flip-flops have been lining the racks for weeks. The April issues of magazines are touting the turn of the season in glorious, lush, expensive colour. I am tempted to take the dog on long sojourns to the park across the street where, if the truth be named, the grass is still a sad, drab shade of semi-green.
March is, indeed, full of the last vestiges of Winter. The Academy Awards ceremony is tonight. College basketball play-off madness is nearly here. Though I can go outside without a jacket, there is a slight chill in the air, which becomes all too obvious as soon as a foot is set out of the sunshine. Mark Twain was quite correct in his assessment of Spring Fever. I have become antsy for something new, bright, and lovely; annually I associate it with the dawn of warm weather, the chirping of birds, a breeze turned comfortable. It can never, never get here soon enough. I base every good, strong hope for the near-future on its arrival. It is amazing how a gentle reminder-to-self to live in the moment, to not wish away even an inch of your life, can be so fruitless when at long-last sunshine and heat is dangled before you. Fever, indeed.
It is difficult to rein in this type of giddiness yet, I am beginning to think, upon actual consideration, worth the effort. There is nothing wrong with a few more mugs of hot chocolate or bowls of soup, a few more weeks where the dog curled up at my feet is welcoming rather than stifling. Perhaps I do not really need those Coach sandals or cotton-coloured bikini right this second. Sleeping under a blanket has its merits, after all; and so does enjoying the air that you are breathing right now, exactly where you are, even if it is a bit nippy.