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.
