I recently unearthed boxes of long forgotten photos. After closely examining the hairstyles, I wish they’d stayed forgotten. Rarely attractive, often disturbing, these stylish coiffures once had an alluring charm.

Early in my childhood, my hair was kept in a short, pixie cut. I was booted outside after breakfast and roamed our property like a feral pig. Short hair made it easier to remove burrs, ticks, dirt clods, and gum. I was difficult to catch, therefore, I’m happy to report that there are few photos from this era.

After a long day on the open range, I was hosed down and rolled into a towel like a tightly wrapped burrito. My mother then plowed through my boyishly bad haircut with a comb the size of a pitchfork.

When my hair became a thicker short cut, I resembled Wayne Newton or Bob’s Big Boy. And there was rarely a photo where I wasn’t wearing a double holster with my six-shooters, because you never knew when a gunfight might break out.

People delighted in calling me Annie Oakley. (If Annie Oakley wore high-waisted skirts and sensible orthopedic shoes.) Sadly, I did not have the flowing mane nor the shooting skills of Phoebe Ann Moses; though not one to disappoint my family’s love for all things western, I later developed the facial hair of Wild Bill Hickok.

The succeeding years were not kind. There were bowl cuts with cowlicks, crooked braids, and electrified hair flying haphazardly in all directions. Sheets of leftover school pictures were found stuck to the bottom of a box, confirming that no one wanted an infinitesimal 1”x 1” photo of a toothless kid with a bad haircut.

One photo montage of teenage cousins doing my hair stirred a memory of torturous pain. Because teen girls were accomplished babysitters, they automatically earned the title of amateur hairdressers. I recall begging them to do my hair, but would live to regret my impetuous decision.

My cousin’s traveling salon went everywhere with them. Setting up shop in our small kitchen, they methodically lined up haircare paraphernalia like surgical instruments in an operating room. The mysterious round suitcase housed a bonnet hair dryer which served as a multitasking tool. It not only dried your hair, but gave you third degree burns in the process.

My beauticians began with a barbaric brushing session that left me writhing in pain. They teased my hair. They ratted it. They pulled it out by the roots. By the time my scalp began bleeding from overbrushing and puncture wounds, out came a glass jar of gloppy pink gel.

Small sections of hair were divided with a rattail comb, as they tunneled into my scalp with the depth of defensive trenches from WWI. After slathering my hair in Dippity-Doo, it was rolled up in curlers resembling small bales of barbed wire. Pulling the pliable hair drying bonnet over the curlers was the crowning moment, as they set the temperature to 1,000 degrees and baked my head for 45 minutes.

Sporting a raw, burned scalp, and the crunchy remnants of dried hair gel wound around concertina wire curlers, I was sent to bed with the reminder that you must suffer to be beautiful. And suffer I did.

As painful and time consuming as the 60’s had been, the 70’s brought a more hassle-free hairstyle. Hair was long, parted down the middle, and uncut. We kept combs in our jeans pockets because girls in the 70’s combed their hair all the time. Had a scholarship been offered for Hair Combing, everyone would have applied.

80’s hair bounced into the decade with gusto. Long hair was replaced with big, immoveable hair that entered the room before you did. I styled my hair before playing softball, hiking, swimming, or skiing. It was mandatory to spend hours perfecting your hairstyle so it could be ruined in five-minutes.

Big hair was not a stand-alone style and required several accoutrements. Large, hideous earrings and massive shoulder pads were worn to balance out the upper body, creating a vision of masculine loveliness. I looked like a cross between Farrah Fawcett and a linebacker for the 49ers.

The 90’s were confusing. There were bobs and bangs, perms, crimps, side ponytails and other puzzling variations that literally left me scratching my head. To save money, I began cutting my own hair. On one daring occasion, I cut my bangs. Having an unhealthy obsession for symmetry, I kept cutting. The outcome was bangs so short, they stood at attention, saluting smartly to all who passed by. This unfortunate look would live in perpetuity as professional family photos were the following day.

When the new millennium arrived, hairstyles were indecisive. I had short hair, shoulder-length hair, permed hair, and a bob. And I used enough hairspray to single-handedly deplete the ozone layer.

As time marched on, in marched the blocky, messy, chunky cuts. Fixated on fashionable trends, everyone had the same hairstyle and dressed identically. I looked closely at one group photo which bore a striking resemblance to early release day at the women’s correctional facility.

Now, I have no style, and have no interest in trends. I wash my hair. Brush it sometimes. Run my fingers through it always. Leave it down. Put it up. Pull it back. And remember with revulsion those horrific hairstyles of yesteryear.