The following is an excerpt from Getting the Pretty Back: Friendship, Family, and Finding the Perfect Lipstick by Molly Ringwald — yes, THAT Molly Ringwald — which is on stands today.
When I was seven years old, I was a tall leggy kid with short shaggy hair and permanently stubbed toes, and for a good deal of time I sported a woman’s stocking (my mother’s) attached to the top of my head with two precisely crisscrossed bobby pins. This seemed to be, in my seven-year-old brain, the best solution as to how to exist in California in the seventies with a gorgeous blue-eyed older sister with long blond hair. I was sure that she knew how it tortured me as I lay on the bed and watched her brush her long straight tresses, and then flip it back over to have it land on her back, as if in slow motion. I was mesmerized by the perfection of it. It was the perfect color, the perfect weight. It even smelled nice. (Farrah Fawcett Shampoo, which I’m pretty sure was just Herbal Essences with a picture of Farrah stuck on the bottle.) I asked my mother if I could grow my hair out like my sister’s. Keep reading »