Damn that little black comb!

Throughout my childhood, adolescence, and teen years there were 2 little words that brought about more fear and anxiety than any other two words in the English language (I know that, given my track record, you are assuming that I am going to say – You're pregnant – but you are wrong). It was “School Pictures”! School Pictures! School Pictures! School Pictures! No 2 more treacherous words exist and I dreaded to hear them every year! Why? I tell you why!

Let’s start by the “popularity meter”, commonly called the picture packages. You could get Package A (or the "I am eventually going to be Prom Queen" package) that had like 9 – 8x10s and 500 trading photos. Or Package B (the "I’m not a cheerleader but I‘m in the Pep Club" package) which offered something like 3 – 8x10s and 250 trading photos. But you could also buy Package C (the "I’m really hot with the Dungeons and Dragons crowd" package) that had 2 – 5x7s and 10 trading photos. And of course there was always Package D, (the "I will probably open fire at a McDonald’s someday" package) which only gave you an unfocused school ID photo and your picture in the yearbook with your name misspelled beneath. I always opted for Package B (a Package A purchase would have just been delusional) but honestly there are still dozens of my untraded elementary school photos stuffed into drawers at my mom's.

Once you decided what picture package you needed, you spent the next week to ten days picking out an outfit and planning a hairstyle. At my house, the clothes were the easy part. My dad loved to shop (no, he wasn't gay) and even though I was a chunky monkey, he could usually find something relatively cute in a 1/2 size (When you're chubby, the clothes run in 1/2 sizes. Example: Lanie Honeyman - size 5... Me - size 10 and 1/2. Understand?). My sister and I would try on various outfits all week long, trying to find the very best look, and finally the night before we would make our final pick! (My sister - oxford shirt and a monogrammed sweater, Me - something absurdly valour). The night before my father would also do our hair (I promise you, he wasn't gay! He just had a lot of sisters!). Now this is the point I may lose some of you (the white people). If you are black (or even part black) getting your hair ready for picture day in the 70s or early 80s was a really big ordeal. It involved shampoo, conditioner, an Alberto VO5 hot oil treatment, pink rollers, a big black comb, a rat-tailed comb, Afro Sheen green hair oil, a curling iron, a portable hooded hair dryer, about three hours of prep work, and the unnatural ability to sleep flat on your back without moving your head in the slightest. (I know to my Caucasian readers this might sound like a lot of work for a hair-do and you are celebrating how easy you have it, but black people don't get lice... so, nah nah-na boo boo! We are even!) My dad would plop down on the couch with his supplies, make us sit on the floor between his knees and go to work, briefly transforming us from caterpillar to butterfly. He would comb and cuss, part and roll, and for some weird and unexplained reason take any excess hair oil that may be left on his hands when he was done and wipe it all over our faces and elbows. (Is it any wonder that I was covered in pimples from age 9 until age 15?)

The next morning we would wake up a half an hour early, get dressed and let Daddy do any touch-ups, while Mom raved about how good we looked. Everyone on the bus would look fantastic but would pretend that they went through no extra work to get ready (All except for the one socially awkward girl who would board the bus dressed in some seasonally inappropriate burgundy velvet, white lace Christmas dress fiasco, ill-fitting white tights, and brown sandals, clutching her Package D envelope). All day long we would sit anxiously awaiting for our class to be called to the auditorium/photo studio and when that moment arrived panic would set in. Boys would immediately start rough-housing in line, the cool girls would busily apply their Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers, and the rest of us would pray that years photo would be better than the last. "Please, let me smile normally.", "Please, don't let me blink this year.", "Please, no boogers." As we got closer and closer to the front of the line, helpers (teacher's aids and room mothers) would aid us in straightening our clothing and check for food in our teeth... and then it was our turn! We would meet the photographer, he would point to a metal stool in front of a blue background, and just before we sat down he would get out a fresh little black comb and try to touch-up our hair. It was that one move, that one 15 second freakishly quick move, that would completely erase the hours of work my father had done the night before. That little black comb would not sail through my hair the way it would the silken locks of the fair-haired beauties before me, it would frizz and divide my age 10 roller-set hair and get tangled half way through the first stroke (at which point "helpful" photo guy would just give up and wait for me to untangle it before he screamed, "Say cheese!"

I look back through my school pictures now and take pleasure in seeing my metamorphosis from insecure child to ridiculous adult. I wish I could have enjoyed it more when I was actually experiencing it. I wish I could have let go a bit more and worried a lot less. But what do I expect from myself? I am not Superman... but if I was, that little black comb would definitely be my kryptonite!