Lanny was SO cute. We were in 10th grade Geometry class together and our lockers were close to each other. I barely spoke to him throughout all of high school, but he sat next to me in that one class. He was a wrestler; at that point, the lightest on the team, though eventually he’d wrestle at the 123 pound weight class and he was good at it. He was short and trim, like me. I am just 5′ tall and at the time weighed about 89 pounds (I am not much bigger now). He was my perfect size and I was ga-ga over him. I let him lean over and look at my work in Geometry. At least he came close to me.  I hoped he would ask me out, but the call never came. I don’t think we had much in common, but I didn’t care.

The next year I summoned up my courage and invited him to the big dance: the Girl’s Lit Club Dance, which was a girl-ask-guy affair, though also the spring formal. He said YES! I was out of my mind with joy and had my pretty pink prom dress cleaned. I had visions of a slow dance, having Lanny’s arms around me.

A week before the dance he called. It was probably the first time he’d ever called. “I can’t afford a tux”. My brain was racing. He was backing out. I was crest-fallen, and scrambled. “That’s OK, you don’t have to wear a tux…we don’t have to go to dinner…you don’t have to buy me flowers”. An air of desperation descended. Long pause…”I just really can’t go”. Cue the sad music. “Well, if you change your mind, just let me know…” My voice trailed off. I didn’t know what else to say or do. My hopes were dashed. There would be no slow dance. The tears flowed. It’s not like there was the basis of a relationship to fall back on. I just thought he was the cutest guy I’d ever seen. I knew nothing else about him except he was a great wrestler and needed to look at my work in Geometry. And that was that. I was heart-broken, over what, I’m not quite sure, since we had barely spoken to each other. He was just my fantasy guy.

I found him on Facebook recently. He still lives in Michigan, in the Upper Peninsula and 46 years later, he is still as cute as can be.

The wait seemed interminable, but the later our birthday was called, the less chance we had of being drafted.
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A normal day shattered by disaster.
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His sisters were all highland dancers and, hand to God, he played the bagpipes.
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Even by tenth grade, Amy had developed, like Scarlett, the ability to dangle young men from her fingertips. I dangled gladly.
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Hair. Always been a big deal to me. I accomplished hormonal lift-off at 11 and immediately shifted into hyper hair-awareness mode. I simultaneously stumbled upon my first rebel role model — James Dean. I became fascinated with him, not for his work in film — Who knew what a method actor was? — but for his bohemian, New York-based lifestyle as represented in the only fan magazine I ever owned.

Through the fan mag’s photos and a detailed bio, James Dean introduced me to my cultural mecca — Greenwich Village — and saved me from a devastating hairstyle dilemma.

Most of my comrades had begun to sport DAs, pomade-laden artifiacts that swept backwards into a stunning representation of a duck’s ass. The front of a DA featured oily ringlets of hair that dangled down the forehead, Sal Mineo-style. This baroque rendering required copious amounts of Brylcreem  and frequent visits to the boys’ room to keep the entire mechanism in perfect form.

DAs worked best if you were dark-haired and Italian. I was neither. Nevertheless, I set out to cultivate my own DA.

A terrible obstacle discouraged my DA grooming attempts. I had a cowlick that wreaked havoc with the left side of my scalp, a tornado swath of untamable hair that ran from front to back. No amount of Vaseline, Brylcreem, or motor oil would tame my hair into the DA’s required contortions. But then I met my fan mag hero, James Dean. Jeez!! His hair was a mess but he still looked totally cool! And he wore glasses, just like me!

Not many of my classmates knew about James Dean. He was my secret. And if anybody cracked wise about my hair, I’d just show them this picture, tell ’em he was a movie star and walk away, secure in the authenticity of my own weirdness.

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More of my work here…

Dorothy Hamill had the best hair in the 1976 Winter Olympic Games. Maybe of all time.

It was shiny, it was silky, it fanned out during her “Hamill-Camel” signature move, it bounced back into place, all pert and sassy. Confident. Strong. And, though it was not yet a common word, that hair was just flat-out empowered.

I was 15, and although I did not actually want to be Dorothy Hamill or learn to ice skate, I did need a new ‘do. The shag hairstyle that had ended the era of my long locks in 1973, just before I entered junior high, had grown out. The two barrettes pinned on either side of my head to keep the flyaway bangs out of my eyes were less than flattering. In fact, I was just plain shaggy.

My mother, bless her, offered to pay for a visit to a real beauty salon, one of the most popular in town. Just going to this place meant something. It’s where the rich kids went, where the “in” people went — neither of which were terms that anyone would apply to my family.

When the stylist finished and curls of brown carpeted the floor beneath the chair, I had a perfect wedge/bob in my natural color brown — just like Dorothy Hamill. It was amazing. I could see my face. I thought I actually looked cute. I swelled with confidence. The stylist told me I had to get a round brush so I could blow dry it to look like this every day. I dutifully watched and listened to how to achieve this effect.

And then came the next day, and I had to blow dry it myself. Mom helped me with the plastic round brush we had bought at the grocery store — an inexpensive knock-off of the style at the salon. We tried to roll and pull and dry and shape all at the same time. The effect was not good.

I no longer looked like Dorothy Hamill. I looked like Nancy, from the comic strip. My wedge had gone bulbous. I cried. I gnashed my teeth. I blamed my mother. I felt cheated. I felt wretched. I would never amount to much. I was clearly a loser. For one, 24-hour period, I had amazing hair. Now I was back to looking unkempt and ragged.

Eventually I got used to the fact that 1) my hair was wavy and would not naturally fan out and bounce back like Dorothy Hamill’s striaght locks and 2) I was hopeless and would always be hopeless with a brush and a blow dryer.

When it came time for my senior portrait to be taken, Mom paid for me to go to the hairdresser and get it done all over again. In my senior class photo, I am wearing my best Annie Hall plaid shirt and brown velvet vest and a perfect Dorothy Hamill wedge/bob. On my hand you can see the tan lines from my bicycling gloves (I had just come back from a week-long bike tour). I wore a huge grin. I and my hair looked just as strong, confident and as empowered as Dorothy Hamill any day.

Mr. Pebbles  was a Soviet Space Cat who became the first animal in space, and the first animal to orbit the Earth. Mr. Pebbles, a stray cat from the streets of Moscow, was selected to be the occupant of the Soviet spacecraft Sputnik 2 that was launched into outer space on November 3, 1957.

Little was known about the impact of spaceflight on living creatures at the time of Mr. Pebbles’ mission, and the technology to de-orbit had not yet been developed, and therefore Mr. Pebbles’ survival was not expected. Some scientists believed humans would be unable to survive the launch or the conditions of outer space, so engineers viewed flights by animals as a necessary precursor to human missions.^[1] The experiment aimed to prove that a living passenger could survive being launched into orbit and endure micro-gravity, paving the way for human spaceflight and providing scientists with some of the first data on how living organisms react to spaceflight environments.

Mr. Pebbles died within hours from overheating, possibly caused by a failure of the central R-7 sustainer to separate from the payload. The true cause and time of her death were not made public until 2002; instead, it was widely reported that she died when her oxygen ran out on day six or, as the Soviet government initially claimed, she was euthanised prior to oxygen depletion.

On April 11, 2008, Russian officials unveiled a monument to Mr. Pebbles. A small monument in her honour was built near the military research facility in Moscow that prepared Mr. Pebbles’ flight to space. It features a cat standing in front of, oddly enough, an American Flag. She also appears on the Monument to the Conquerors of Space in Moscow.