Apparently, it’s true. At a very low point in my hair history, I sported a mullet. I had actually blocked this out of my conscious memory, and was blissful in my lack of remembrance.

Then Facebook happened. Plausible deniability no longer exists…because people from your past took photos of you.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

Not only was I wearing a sweater PLASTERED WITH SHEEP…but I was sporting the “business in the front, party in the back” hockey player haircut. (Please note, so were my friends.)

Previous generations could destroy the negatives. All we can do is smile sheepishly and admit defeat.

  • Yes, I wore my hair a la Farrah Faucett. Or in a mullet. Or a one-sided pony tail.
  • Yes, I wore leg warmers.
  • Yes, I rimmed my eyes with charcoal eyeliner.
  • Yes, I tucked sweaters into my jeans…and my jeans into my socks.
  • Yes, I wore jelly shoes.
  • Yes, I had LARGE glasses that covered half my face.
  • Yes, I wore harem pants. And culottes.
  • Yes, I wore dolman sleeves with one shoulder exposed.
  • And stirrup pants.
  • And huge earrings.
  • And fingerless gloves.
  • And shoulder pads. In everything. (If a shirt didn’t come with them…I added them.)
  • And no – I felt no shame.

And someday my daughter’s future child will be able to look back on her Facebook (or whatever social media we’re using then) and say “I can’t believe you wore THAT!” just like my daughter has said to me.

But all kidding aside, who would change their childhood? I had a mullet because we all did. We liked them. I wore leg warmers because they were trendy. And shoulder pads…I mean, c’mon! Lady Diana made them super popular! Who didn’t wear them back then?

We also played with toys that didn’t plug in. We used phones that had dials and were attached to the kitchen wall. (I remember the day we had a second jack installed in my mom’s room…we felt like we had arrived!) We explored the neighborhood until dark.  We played capture the flag throughout the entire neighborhood. We had fun.

So if remembering an awesome childhood and teen years means confessing to a few interesting hair choices, and some bygone clothing styles, then consider this my confession.

Your bedheaded blogger,