In 1970 or thereabouts, the musical Hair came to Seattle. My boyfriend and I got tickets. My boyfriend was an amateur musician, and had done his own guitar arrangements for Let the Sunshine In, which he thought was pretty good – he often played it at parties. I loved to sing I Met a Boy Called Frank Mills, and although I had been told I had a good voice, I wasn’t as confident as my boyfriend, so I only sang at home, never at parties.
The night before we went to see Hair, I washed my own hair, and when it was still wet I braided it in tiny braids all over my head. At that time my hair hung nearly to my waist and it was my idea to have a huge honey-brown “Afro” type hairdo. Sure enough, the next day when my hair was dry and I undid the braids, my cloud of hair stood out about a foot from my face. It was a statement – of what, I’m not sure, but I was pleased with my appearance, which I augmented with dangly beaded earrings, a peasant style long dress, and a leather vest with fringes. On my face I wore no make-up, but I did wear my John Lennon-type wire-rimmed glasses. My boyfriend wore a headband around his hair, which was already curly and unruly, and hung to his shoulders. His vest had fringes too.
Arriving at the theater, we stood in a huge crowd of excited hippies, most of them stoned out of their heads. I was totally straight and sober that night, because I thought I might be pregnant, and although I certainly didn’t look it, at heart I was responsible. It was a lonely feeling. But I loved the musical although its storyline was weak, and the famous nude scene was anti-climactic. The next day my hair wasn’t quite so beautiful so I washed it and thus ended my Afro style – way too much trouble. I wasn’t pregnant, either.